Crime & Punishment
by NobodyVIII
Summary: For years, Lieutenant Hank Anderson pinned the loss of his son, Cole, on androids. An unlikely friendship changed his mind. Can this same friendship protect Hank from himself when the real culprit is released from prison? Or will Hank make a mistake that costs him more than his career? {{Post Peaceful Protest}} Connor makes Hank his mission, Hank deals with the shadow of his past.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: JUNE 17th, 2039 - AM 10:03:25**

The chair squeaked. The lumbar support was terrible and the armrests weren't wide enough to do their job. Maybe that explained why Hank felt so uncomfortable.

"It's just a matter of time before more of these start popping up, so I'll be keeping you posted."

Captain Jeffrey Fowler didn't seem to notice his subordinate. He continued.

"Of course, with all this new legislation being handed down from Washington, the DPD is going to have a hell of a time sorting all these cases out. We're forming a special task force. There's even talk of creating a new division—although nobody can seem to make up their minds about whether it should be separate or integrated." Jeffrey made a half-hearted attempt at a laugh. "Things sure were a lot easier when I didn't have to think about payroll for plastic officers."

"Hey—I'm not the one who thought it was a good idea to partner up with CyberLife's wonder cop in the first place," Hank retorted, momentarily distracted. He raised his hands in good-natured protest before crossing his arms once more. "Looks like you got what you signed up for."

Fowler shot him a warning glare. They had played at this charade for years. "Keep talking," he said, nodding. "Let's see how much overtime you earn for yourself."

Shifting in his seat, Hank dismissed the threat with a smug snicker.

Fowler, however, didn't rise to it. He paused, the glare losing some of its irony—softening, despite itself. Uneasiness crept back into Hank's gut.

"What is it?" Hank pressed.

Fowler clearly didn't want to say. The detective in Hank read the telltale signs with trepidation: tense shoulders, pursed brow…the way he fidgeted ever so slightly with his thumb and forefinger. The police captain's gaze seemed to be fixated away from both his lieutenant and the terminal in front of him. Naturally, Hank's attention shifted to the unwanted report reflected in the computer's transparent screen.

And his world ground to a halt.

"…It's this Thursday," Hank heard Fowler explain. "A parole officer has already been assigned."

Riveted in place, Hank didn't respond. Fowler's jaw tightened.

"I know," he agreed solemnly. "I thought he had at least ten years. But the bastard came up for parole."

Silence.

Jeffrey searched the grizzled detective's stoney features, doing a little investigating of his own. Hank's ruddy alcoholic complexion had evaporated. Disbelief and an emptiness the captain didn't even have a word for showed plainly on his haggard face. There was no trace of the usual ire Hank loved dishing out. No spark in his eye. Nothing. The painful absence left a sick feeling in Fowler's stomach.

"Hank," Jeffrey insisted. "I wanted you to hear it from me. I'm your friend. And as your friend, I thought you should know before you read about it in some random memo."

Hank's gaze ghosted slowly from the terminal, stopping with such intensity on Jeffrey's face that the captain found himself leaning away from it.

"Thursday, huh," Hank finally replied. His tone betrayed a welled-up dam of deep-seated pain.

And anger.

"That's right," Jeffrey concurred. Scooting forward in his chair, he leaned his elbows on the desk and folded his hands in front of him. Anxiety always made him fidget. He waited.

After a moment, Hank turned and read over the report a second time…backwards though it might have been. He skipped the major details. He'd know them in his sleep. Only the name and the first charge stood out to him.

'STEPHEN UNDERWOOD - POSSESSION OF METHAMPHETAMINE'

The dam burst.

"Jesus." Fowler almost wondered if he meant it. "That's at least a five year sentence," Hank spat. "We knew that going in. The judge gave him double that. How the fuck is he walking in four?!"

"Officially? A spotless record behind bars and a parole turnaround time you wouldn't believe," Fowler explained. "Unofficially—." He rubbed his thumb across his middle and pointer fingers. "The man's well off…or, he was before all this. He knew people. There's a chance someone agreed to help him out in advance. There's a chance…" Fowler sighed heavily, "…he just got lucky."

Hank was out of his seat before Fowler could stop him. "That fucker took more than ten years from me, Jeffrey," he growled indignantly. Wounded. Pointing wildly at his chest like what was inside it was breaking. "He took my LIFE. You understand?" Hank hissed. "My goddamn LIFE. Ten years wasn't even close to what he fucking deserved! And now you're telling me I'm going to have to live with him just—just walking out of there?! Free as a goddamn—."

"I'm not telling you anything," Fowler retorted, trying to assuage his colleague as much as his overworked patience would allow. "Except that this Thursday, Stephen Underwood will be released on parole."

The flats of Hank's hands came down so violently on Jeffrey's desk that a stack of reports jolted and slid free, scattering the contents across the floor. Under normal circumstances, the police captain would have barraged his lieutenant from all sides for the incident. It took some doing, but Fowler managed to bite his tongue.

There was more where that came from—every inch of Hank promised as much. But as the reality of the news settled over him, the energy behind the outburst went cold. Rage dwindled to defeat.

"There's no fucking way," he managed, turning towards the door. His heavy steps were the only sound to be heard.

"Hank." Fowler's tone held a warning. Hank paused, his back to the captain. "I want you to head home. Take a day. Take a week if you need it. But don't even think about starting something with him. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Hank walked the remaining three steps to the glass door and stopped. He grasped the handle so hard his knuckles went white. Loosened up. Gripped tighter.

"He took my son from me," was all Hank said before he pulled open the door and walked out of the precinct.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: JUNE 21st, 2039 - PM 07:24:41**

Connor stepped out of the taxi, straightening his collar as the automated 'thank you' sounded behind him. Not long after the events at the CyberLife assembly plant, the awakened android had abandoned all ties to the company—including his signature uniform. Hank had since donated a few articles of clothing, but the difference in size ensured that each piece hung awkwardly from Connor's slight build. He'd accepted them gratefully, although he rarely wore them today. Between Jericho's stash of supplies, government grants, and charity organizations that sprang up like mushrooms overnight, Connor had managed to put together a wardrobe that fit him a bit more snuggly. Over time, he had collected a few items that could be classified as 'comfortable,' but many of his choices tended towards business professional. Old habits died hard.

Not everything had gone smoothly for the RK800 model after his deviancy. Markus' successful peaceful protest had won a sizable majority of the human public to a supportive opinion of android rights. The government, however, was not the public. Neither was the business sector. Immediately, issues of legislation, compensation, and damages erupted in the media. Debates raged universally across various news outlets: should androids be considered U.S. citizens? Do they have the right to vote and/or own property? Should they be able to elect representatives as a separate governing body or can they integrate into the pre-existing political make-up of the government? Should CyberLife compensate their former clientele for loss of property…or did that constitute an infraction of androids' legal status as living beings? Should the corporation shut down—or be turned over to the androids as a reproduction facility? Do they get healthcare? Do they get wages?

Are they alive?

A whirlwind of press interviews had followed, ultimately leading to national hearings. Connor's part in the android revolution had remained an indefinite subject of debate. Some felt that he had acted the part of the liberator—in fact, many androids saw him as something of a hero. Others—especially those in power—felt that a defective machine had malfunctioned and released millions of dollars worth of property without authorization. Different viewpoints called for different outcomes. A dismissal of all charges. An official investigation. For the android to be held accountable to a jury of his peers. Deactivation. And that was just the humans. Not all androids trusted Connor's motivations for joining the revolution. Some saw him as a potential threat further down the line. Many were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

None of that mattered right now, though. The clamoring demands of D.C. could wait. The sun was setting. The day was clear. And for the first time in several long months, he was visiting Hank Anderson.

To Connor's surprise, the garage was open. Several boxes had been pushed haphazardly into the driveway, along with an assortment of household objects that had invariably found their ultimate resting places there. Scanning the scene, Connor spotted his old friend waist deep in totes and cardboard, sifting through stacks of papers that looked starkly more organized than the rest of the chaos around him. He stepped over a rusty set of sheers and maneuvered through the broken down relics of things Hank would get around to fixing/sorting/cleaning one day. Scanning again, Connor noticed a few other odds and ends of interest.

SYNC DONE —  
PROCESSING DATA —  
COMPLETE.

***BASS GUITAR, TWO STRINGS MISSING***

***BASKETBALL HOOP***

***ANDERSON FAMILY PHOTO***

"Hello, Hank."

Hank nearly jumped out of his skin, knocking the loose lid of the tote in front of him free as he turned.

"Jesus, Connor," Hank griped, his hands briefly bracing themselves on his knees as he gathered himself. "What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that?"

A hint of a smile toyed at the corners of Connor's mouth. Deviancy had earned him his own personal sense of humor. And he'd missed this. "Sorry," he offered, knowing full well that Hank didn't care in the slightest that he'd been startled. "I should have knocked."

Hank straightened and sighed, the adrenaline obviously easing from his system. "Just call the next time you're planning on dropping by unannounced. Save me the heart attack."

Something felt—off. Without another word, Hank turned back to the stacks of folders he'd been pouring over and resumed his work. Connor stood in place, taken a little aback. It had been months since he'd last seen or heard from Lieutenant Anderson, due to the sensitive nature of the hearings he'd had to undergo. Perhaps presumptuously, Connor had been certain that Anderson would be happy to see him. He tried again.

"Spring cleaning?" Connor asked, stepping inside the garage. "It's a little late in the year for that, don't you think?"

Hank said nothing. Page after idle page flipped by as the police lieutenant read through them. For a moment, he paused, and Connor was sure he'd found something he was looking for. But after a brief perusal, he must have decided against it. The pages began flipping once more. Connor's brow bent in confusion.

"I could help you if you'd like," Connor offered, taking another step towards his friend. Something snapped under his foot. Glancing down, he saw the remains of an old-fashioned picture frame. One panel of the frame had cracked under his weight, but luckily enough, the glass pane seemed to have been lost some time ago and there was no picture inside. The sound caught Hank's attention long enough for him to glance over his shoulder.

"Don't break anything," he warned before turning away and picking up another folder. The remark wasn't exactly permission to help, Connor realized. More like an offhand dismissal of the android's presence. Something was definitely off.

"Is…everything alright, Lieutenant?"

Silence.

"Is there something I should know about?"

Silence. Connor took another step closer.

"I thought we could catch up over a drink tonight. I wanted to see how you were doing. My treat. What do you say?" —Not that Connor could drink, but he hoped the thought would count.

It was like Connor wasn't even in the room. Hank ignored every inquiry without so much as shifting his feet. This self-imposed display of isolation gave Connor cause for concern. Lieutenant Anderson had, on several occasions, admitted to suicidal tendencies and—thanks to his program's extensive knowledge of human behavior—the android detective knew full well that distancing from friends and family was a sure sign of depression. The question was—what had happened?

Crisscrossing through the mess, Connor finally reached the folder fiasco and stopped short on Hank's left. Scanning the array of papers, he quickly ascertained that they were printed copies of case files. The questionable legality of keeping copies of sensitive police documents flashed through Connor's mind, but he let it go. Obviously, these files were so important to Hank that he had seen fit to keep a hard copy…despite the ease of digital bookkeeping and file transfers. Or, perhaps it was just Hank's penchant for the old fashioned that drove him to keep paper copies. Something about the smell of paper or other such sentimentality.

"Are these your big cases?" Connor asked, lifting a random folder from the pile and examining it. "There are quite a few of them."

Almost before he'd finished his sentence, Connor was relieved of the folder. Hank snatched it from his hands unceremoniously and turned on his counterpart. "Why don't you mind your own business for once, alright?" Hank snapped, his voice lower than usual, his jaw set tight. The unwarranted animosity sent another red flag through Connor's programming. "I don't need your help with this one."

This one.… The words indicated a specificity that held personal undertones. Connor didn't budge. "You're working a case," he surmised, eyes narrowed as he studied Hank's face for further clues. His LED cycled to yellow. "Something important."

"Hey! Cut that out!" Hank shoved Connor in the chest and the android staggered back against a stack of boxes. "Don't you analyze me," he warned. Connor's LED went red before slowly circling through yellow, then blue. He hadn't brought himself to remove it yet. Maybe it was a matter of identity. Maybe it just didn't matter to him. He hadn't stopped to consider the reasons why.

As the initial surprise faded, Connor righted himself, smoothing his disordered sleeves as he attempted to process the situation. The lieutenant hadn't pushed him hard enough to do any damage. The altercation itself, Connor realized, had been a warning. Hank was dealing with personal issues yet again. But this time, he wanted to be sure Connor stayed out of the them.

Hank must have realized he'd gone a bit too far because he managed to meet Connor's eye for the first time since the android had arrived. For a long moment, he said nothing, as if struggling to let his friend in and block him out simultaneously. Then, some of the hardened veneer cracked. Tension eased from his shoulders and his gaze met the ground momentarily before finding Connor's brown one once more. He shifted gears.

"Tonight's not a good night," Hank explained, some of the familiarity returning to his voice. He patted Connor's shoulder in what the android knew to be a show of apology. "Wish I could catch up with you, but I can't right now. Sorry, Connor."

The forthright dismissal was, admittedly, better than silence, Connor reasoned internally. But despite Hank's refusal, his friend resolved to get to the bottom of whatever was going on—with or without permission. For the present, however, it was obvious that their reunion would have to wait. Connor nodded, setting aside the air of professionalism his deviancy had fought for so long to overcome.

"I understand," he conceded. "I'm sorry I bothered you. It's been a while and…well, I wanted to see a familiar face. I was inconsiderate."

Hank smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't worry about it. I probably wouldn't have checked my phone anyway."

"I know for a fact you wouldn't have," Connor countered warmly. He paused. This wasn't at all how he'd envisioned seeing Hank again. The whole encounter had been so…awkward. Stilted. He didn't want to leave things as they stood, but Hank had made it very clear that he had no desire to spend time talking with his android friend.

(I guess I'll have to wait,) he told himself, disappointed.

"Let me know when you have a free moment," Connor suggested before beginning the zigzagging journey out of the garage once more. The first glinting of stars overhead signaled night was coming on. He'd have to find a place to stay. Powering down wasn't a necessity for him like sleep was for humans, but he didn't have any particular desire to wander aimlessly around the streets of Detroit until morning either.

"Hey Connor."

Connor turned.

"It's good to see you."

Connor smiled, nodding his appreciation.

"Take care of yourself, Hank."

As Hank turned back to his papers, Connor headed to the sidewalk and began making his slow way out of the neighborhood, head spinning with questions. With a simple sequence of blinks, he called another taxi and stopped at the street corner, waiting.  
One directive surfaced over and over again on loop.

\- INVESTIGATE HANK ANDERSON -


	3. Chapter 3

Notes:

 _{{The first time I played through D:BH, I was enamored with Hank's gruff exterior, but I found myself torn-because I wanted to finish the job Amanda trusted me to accomplish. Ultimately, I became a big sucker for Hank and found Amanda to be a real pill. How did you guys play Connor the first time through?}}_

 **Chapter 3: JUNE 21th, 2039 - PM 09:02:23**

"Captain Fowler!"

Jeffrey stopped fumbling absently for his remote start and turned towards the familiar voice with a sigh. It was late. He was tired. All he wanted was to climb in his car, go home, and eat his leftovers in peace. But if Connor had tracked him down, there had to be a reason. After Hank's stormy exit from the precinct several days prior, Jeffrey had a suspicion he knew just what that reason was.

"Back in town, already, Connor?" he greeted tiredly as the android crossed the parking garage to meet him. "I thought the suits in Washington D.C. had decided to keep you in the capitol for the foreseeable future."

"I managed to escape," Connor replied ironically, slowing to a stop. He paused, looked Jeffrey over. "They've been overworking you, I take it."

Although Fowler didn't exactly appreciate the once over, he knew he'd have to learn to get used to it. If things kept going the way they seemed to be, he'd be working with more and more androids on a day-to-day basis. Being scanned would just have to become part of life now. He half-chuckled.

"What gave it away?" he asked rhetorically.

"The bloodshot eyes for one," Connor answered. "That...and the fact that you-."

"I get it, I get it." Jeffrey held up a hand to stop the analysis. "And you're right. As you can imagine, I'd really love to get home as soon as possible before I have to get up and start this process all over again." Fowler stifled a yawn before continuing. "I know I'm gonna regret asking this," he said, more to himself than to his android counterpart. He straightened, accepting the possibility of a long night ahead. "...Is there something I can help you with?"

Connor nodded once.

"I've just been to see Lieutenant Anderson."

Jeffrey waited.

"-And?"

"He seemed...distracted. Distant. It was almost as if he felt that my presence was an interruption."

Fowler listened with more interest than his exhausted brain wanted to commit to. Connor continued.

"Have you experienced any changes in his behavior lately? We both know he's prone to dysfunctional episodes, but the way he was acting-it seemed almost hostile."

"Hank's going through a lot this week," Jeffrey acknowledged. "I figured it would knock him off his feet for a while."

"What exactly is he going through?" Connor pressed. "I tried to ask him about whatever he was dealing with, but he wouldn't say."

Jeffrey shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It wasn't his place to stick a toe in Hank's personal life-at least, that's how he saw it. Still, in all honesty, he was worried about his old friend. Professional circumstances made anything Jeffrey had to say subject to that relationship, regardless of the fact that the two had known each other since grade school. Connor, however, stood a better chance of getting through to Anderson. Hank had, after all was said and done, developed quite the soft spot for the android. Jeffrey relented.

"Hank got word this week that Stephen Underwood has been released from prison," he explained. Connor frowned.

"Stephen Underwood." The statement was more of a question.

"The surgeon he considers responsible for the death of his son."

If Connor had been human, Jeffrey was certain the color would've drained from his face. As it was, the android seemed frozen for a moment, his eyes drifting off to one side as he processed the information.

"Oh."

"'Oh' is right," Jeffrey agreed. "Hank's one tough son-of-a-bitch, but this...this is the kind of thing that might be too much for him to swallow."

Connor met Jeffrey's gaze with concern. The amount of genuine expression in the android's face still somehow surprised the police captain.

"I see," Connor replied, contemplative before adding- "Did he say anything to you? About the situation or what he plans to do about it?"

"If he values his career, he'll let the whole thing go," Jeffrey replied. "I know this is hard on him, but he is a police lieutenant. He can't just throw out the law when things get personal for him."

"I understand that, but did he say anything to you that you can remember?" Connor insisted.

"Oh, he said plenty," Jeffrey countered. "I couldn't tell you everything word for word. What I can tell you is that he said less than I expected him to. That's what has me worried."

In the dimness of the car garage, the shift in Connor's LED from blue to yellow was impossible to miss. It cast cycling shadows across his uneasy plastic features.

"Do you think there's a chance he's going to become a danger to himself?" Connor asked, his tone losing some of the professional crispness Jeffrey had come to expect from him.

"There's always the possibility," Jeffrey admitted. "I've tried to call him since he stormed out the other day, but he hasn't picked up."

"So, he hasn't been working recently," Connor surmised.

"Not in the last few days, no."

"Was he working on any intensive cases before he left?"

"Nothing worth mentioning."

Connor seemed to be calculating something, because the barrage of questions suddenly came to a standstill. Jeffrey waited. After a longer silence than he felt comfortable with had passed between them, he cleared his throat.

"Anything else you can think of?" he asked.

Connor came back to the present.

"I think I have what I need for the moment," he confirmed.

"That's great," Jeffrey nodded, pulling the remote start from his pocket and firing up his car's engine. He waited for a moment to let the inside warm up and as he did so, he turned back to Connor. "Listen," he began, his tone that of a friend. "I'm not going to ask what you're up to. All I want to hear is that you're going to keep an eye on Anderson for the time being. Make sure he doesn't do something he'll regret. He's a good officer and an even better man...and he won't listen to me. But I know you don't take no for an answer. Just-keep him out of trouble, alright?"

Being taken into the police captain's confidence seemed to warm Connor to Jeffrey. His LED returned to its blue state and he nodded.

"That's a promise," he reassured Fowler.

"Good."

The front side door opened for Jeffrey and he climbed inside. As the automated panel began sliding closed behind him, he added a heartfelt: "I'll hold you to that!" before it shut altogether. The car began backing out of its parking space with the deliberate grace only technology could accomplish. Jeffrey sighed, running a hand over his tired eyes. The vehicle accelerated, gradually approaching the parking garage exit. Absently, he ventured a last look at the android he'd left moments before.

Connor was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Notes:

 _((A friend of mine stayed over at my house until 4AM last night to finish his first playthrough. He got all the way to the end and Doppelganger Connor killed Hank. It was the 'transfer' ending. Ooooooof. Didn't. Need. That.))_

 _((Also, there's mention of drinking, death, and depression in this one. Please don't trigger yourself. Happy reading!))_

 **Chapter 4: JUNE 22nd, 2039 - AM 11:14:39**

Someone was at the door.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

In the back of Hank's semi-consciousness, the intrusive pounding barely registered. Intoxication coupled with sleep had a beautiful way of excusing away annoyances. Someone was at the door, sure. But they could wait, right? Hank wasn't working today, he'd been up nearly all night...he had reasonable cause to ignore the visitor. Plus, he knew that waking up wouldn't be a great idea for the headache that throbbed absently behind his eyes. A silence followed, lulling him back to welcome sleep. For about five seconds.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

"Hank?...nearly noon. I tried calling...didn't answer."

The words registered slowly as blissful slumber hardened into unwelcome reality. The familiar android voice outside elicited a growl from the interrupted sleeper. Why was it that when he most wanted to be left alone, Connor magically barged into his life? In boyhood, Hank's uncle had adopted a German Shepherd, an old K-9 police force retiree. If his owner left the room, the animal got up immediately and followed, and if-heaven forbid-the dog was left behind, it would pace in a loop from one door to the next like an anxious military officer at his post, whining and panting, circling the door he'd last seen his master use. It would carry on like that for hours until Hank's uncle returned. Sometimes, Connor's singular focus couldn't help but remind Hank of that German Shepherd.

In truth, Connor had more than earned his place in Hank's life. The deviant investigation had proven to Anderson time and again that the AI detective was more than a plastic rendering of a human form, that the android felt beyond the capacities of his original programming. Connor had risked his life more than once to protect the police lieutenant. The RK800 had insisted on going the extra mile to meet Hank where he stood-a depressed, exhausted, bitter man carrying the past around like a rucksack. Ultimately, Connor had given Hank more than the ability to accept that the hatred he'd felt for androids was an unfair one. He'd given him the ability to care again...about life, about others. About himself.

That was, until he'd heard the news that the man who had been responsible for his son's death was being released from prison.

Hank hauled himself upright on the sofa, cursing the soreness that lit up his back as he did so. Sunlight seared his vision. He squinted and blinked some of the fog from his head, but it was quickly replaced by the impending headache he'd been hoping to stave off. Swinging his legs over the side of the couch, his foot knocked over one of six or seven bottles strewn on the floor beside him. He hadn't managed to finish the last one and its contents spilled instantly.

"Ah-for fuck's sake," he grumbled, looking around for something to mop up the stain.

"Is everything alright in there?" came the voice again from outside. Hank rolled his eyes.

"Gimme a second."

Rising from the sofa, Hank stepped around the mess of bottles and papers strewn around the living room before making his groggy way to the front door. Glaring, angry beams of sunlight poured spitefully into his field of vision as he opened it. He shielded his eyes and as he regained vision from the sudden blinding, Connor came into focus.

"Late night?" he asked simply. There was no trace of CyberLife's predetermined conversation starter in the android's tone, none of the stark absolutism he'd seen Connor use while addressing the Senate on TV. This was his friend. And truth be told, despite the shit week he'd been having, despite the invasive interruption, Hank was glad to see him.

"Something like that," Hank replied evenly.

Connor glanced over Hank's shoulder and through the doorway, clearly hoping to gather a glimpse into the night's events, but Hank continued.

"I thought I told you. I'm busy." It was unfair. And Hank knew it. Connor's gaze returned to the lieutenant and he studied his friend's face.

"I know what you told me," he said. "I just don't think you should be alone right now."

Hank scowled. "And what brought you to that conclusion?"

"I spoke with Captain Fowler last night." Of course he had. "I know what's going to happen tomorrow."

The thought of the release date caused a wave of grief and ire to wash over him. Fuck...he was too hungover for this. He needed to be drunker.

"If you know what tomorrow is, then you know good and well that I-."

"Hank-stop." Connor shook his head, a pained expression pulling at his brow and the corners of his mouth. "I know that I can't even begin to imagine what you must be going through, but-."

"You're damn right you can't." Once again, unfair. Connor knew it too, Hank could tell. The android paused pointedly before continuing.

"I want to help. In any way I can."

Hank considered firing off once more, but something about the genuine nature of the reply caught him off guard.

"If you don't want to talk, we won't talk. If you'd rather keep to yourself, I'll find something to do. But I want you to have someone here while you're dealing with this."

He meant it, too. Hank saw it in his eyes. Damn him. His former partner reached out and placed a reassuring hand on Hank's shoulder. Before Hank realized what was happening, before he could gather the presence of mind to stop him, Connor had pulled the older man into a hug.

"I'm your friend, Lieutenant," Hank heard over his shoulder. "Let me be that friend."

Pulling back, Connor smiled-a little smirk of a thing shadowed by the concern still creasing his brow. Hank's walls collapsed. He sighed, waved a hand in defeat as he turned back into the house.

"Come in," he said simply.

Connor stepped inside after him, obviously relieved to do so. Coming through the front door beat busting through a side window, Hank was sure. With CyberLife still buried under sanctions and investigations, he'd never gotten that reimbursement for the broken glass Connor had promised. A piece of cardboard was-at that very moment-still taped to the window's frame.

"Make yourself comfortable," Hank continued. "If you can find a spot, that is."

Sumo rose from his place by the radiator and ambled over to the android, wagging his fluffy tail. Connor knelt down to the dog's level, running a hand under its chin.

"Hey, Sumo," he greeted warmly. He stood, surveying Hank's house with more than idle curiosity. He was looking for something-information. Piecing together the mess. The papers. And whatever else he'd determined he needed to learn about before asking Hank directly. The police lieutenant decided to get ahead of the interrogation.

"Didn't get to bed last night," Hank admitted. He was still in the clothes Connor had seen him in the previous evening, so he figured he'd go ahead and get that question out of the way. "I was...going over the case file. Underwood's." Hank moved to the coffee table where several files lay open, their contents strewn haphazardly across the wooden surface. He moved a few pages and picked up a particularly worn piece of paper. He stared at it for a moment. He'd memorized every line, but seeing it...well, seeing it brought back such an overwhelming sense of loss that it made him nauseous. He tilted the page Connor's direction. "The police report. On the night of the accident."

Connor immediately seemed to understand the gravity of the trust Hank was offering him along with the paper. He crossed to the coffee table, meeting Hank's eyes in silence before accepting the report. He held it with the delicacy of a revered family heirloom, carefully smoothing a crinkled corner smooth before examining its contents. Hank turned away. He didn't want to watch Connor's face as he read the details of the worst night of his life. Instead, remembering the spill from earlier, he left the android in the living room and went into the kitchen to find a rag. The silence in the house was heavy. Hank's steps sounded loud in his ears and when he pulled the second cabinet drawer open in search of a dish towel, the squeaking aggravated his nerves. By the time Hank returned to the coffee table, Connor was sitting on the sofa, hunched over the remaining files, sifting through the data and trying to piece together some semblance of the events as they had taken place. He'd separated Cole's report from the rest off to one side, referencing it from time to time.

"This all happened very fast," Connor mused absently, lifting a report to glance at the one behind. He shook his head as he read. "It must have been awful."

"It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out," Hank retorted. Connor ignored the jibe.

"This Underwood character..." he continued. "He didn't really have any priors-unless you count a few speeding tickets and one instance of public intoxication over 20 years before the incident." Hank nodded, scowling. He'd poured over the same information countless times himself. "So, why would he decide to do something like this out of the blue?"

"Does it matter?" Hank's tone was almost feral. The sudden shift caught Connor's attention and he looked up from the papers.

"Well," he hesitated. "Maybe not. But it's worth noting." The android spotted the rag in Hank's hand and, glancing down at the assortment of empty bottles next to the couch, began collecting them-two in each hand. He moved past Hank on his way to toss them, still talking. "That may explain his shortened sentence."

"Should've gotten more," was all Hank could muster in reply. Kneeling after a bad night's sleep on the sofa gave him a fair amount of grief, but he ignored his back and set to work on the stain. Connor made another trip to the kitchen, quickly disposing of the rest of the bottles before coming back to the files and stacking them in some semblance of order. The smell of old beer made Hank's stomach churn. He was too fucking hungover to be doing this. Connor resumed his seat on the couch, watching. He was quiet for a moment, Hank noticed, considering some line of inquiry. Hank let him. He wasn't about to be one for conversation today.

"You're...not going to like what I have to say," Connor prefaced, coming to some conclusion. Hank stood with a grunt and a choice word. The stain was lighter. That would have to do. The look he leveled in Connor's direction was a warning.

"Then you'd probably better think twice about asking it," he advised. "I'm not in the mood."

Connor considered his words carefully as Hank went to the kitchen table and tossed the rag next to a stack of mail he hadn't bothered going through yet.

"I don't think it's wise to drag up the past like this," Connor decided on. Hank's jaw tensed. He followed a particularly jagged wood grain along the table with his eyes, trying to keep his mouth shut. "Stephen Underwood is being released tomorrow. That's not an outcome you were prepared for. But it's happening all the same."

Hank clenched his fists, stretched them flat. Clenched them again.

"You're never going to forget about what happened."

Stretched them flat.

"You're never going to stop wishing things were different."

Clenched them again.

"What happened to Cole was-unthinkable. But he wouldn't want you to-."

"What's that, Connor?" Hank couldn't contain himself any longer. He stormed back in the android's direction. "Huh? What exactly wouldn't he want me to do?" He stopped at the end of the sofa, ran a frustrated hand over his bearded face.

"Hank, I-."

"No, you listen to me." He scowled mirthlessly. "You didn't even know him, Connor. You barely know ME-have you ever stopped to think about that? You've known me since November. November! I haven't even known you a year! Hell, you're not even the guy I met at Jimmy's Bar that night-you're just the guy they sent to replace him! That guy caught a clip-full at Stratford Tower and you were the lucky bastard who uploaded his memory!" Connor opened his mouth-in surprise or to cut Anderson off, Hank didn't know. It was a low blow. But he wasn't done. "For fuck's sake, Connor! You weren't even able to make your own decisions until Markus sent you to throw a party at the CyberLife facility! How could you possibly know what I need right now? Or how I need to handle it? Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me what Cole would want?"

Connor's mouth shut tight.

"I need you to get one thing straight in your head right now," Hank barked, pointing a finger in the android's direction. "I have spent years dealing with this shit. On my own! In my own way! And I know, I know! You want to help. But you CAN'T. Do you understand me? You can't do anything about this. This isn't an interrogation! This isn't a therapy session! This is MY SON. And where Cole is concerned, you don't have any fucking clue. Got it?"

Connor said nothing.

"Got it?!

Connor returned a steady glare in Hank's direction. Hank knew he'd wounded him. Frankly, he didn't give a shit. The android stood. Shrugged-as much as plastic shoulders could.

"You're right," Connor conceded, nodding. Hank didn't budge. "I didn't know Cole. I haven't known you for long and I'm not the same serial number as the android who paid for your drink that night at Jimmy's Bar." He took a step towards Hank. "But *you* knew him. And you knew Cole."

He was less than a foot from Hank now, staring across at him with such brutal honesty that Hank took a step back.

"Cole was your son, Hank. You had to watch him die. Not me. You." Hank wanted to punch his lights out, but the look in his eye didn't stop Connor from continuing. "You got to watch him learn how to walk. Hear his first words. You probably remember exactly what he looked like on his first day of school."

"-Shut up."

"Your marriage was crumbling. Your job was demanding any spare moment you might have had to get out of the house. Your only joy in life was your son."

"I said, shut. Up."

"Cole was your life, Lieutenant." Connor's furrowed brow meant business. Hank had seen the same look on his face while interrogating the busted up android from the Ortiz case. It pissed Hank off to see it used against him. "You loved him with everything you had."

"Last chance, Connor," Hank warned. "Or I'll-."

"Go ahead!" Connor snapped. Hank stopped short. "Go ahead, Hank! It's obvious you're going to do whatever you want. So, what's stopping you? Hit me! Order me out of the house! Throw me across the room!" This time it was Connor's turn to square up to Hank. His eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. "If you can honestly look me in the eye tell me that Cole would want you to waste your life alone in this house, eating whatever you want or nothing at all, drinking until you feel nothing and can't even remember what he looked like-all because of something that happened to him?" He shook his head, lifted his hands in defeat. "Then, you're right. I don't know you at all."

Hank wanted to murder Connor where he stood-just rip his arms off and beat him to death with them. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to drink. He wanted to forget.

But he couldn't bring himself to do any of those things.

Having made his point, Connor took a step back, giving Hank some room. He searched Anderson's face for a long, silent moment...probably trying to gauge if anything he'd said had landed.

"What do you want from me?" Hank ventured finally. Defeated. The argument-coupled with the hangover-had taken the wind from his sails. Connor softened, though his resolve didn't flinch.

"At the moment?" he replied, some of his ironic sense of humor returning. "I want you to take a shower." Hank rolled his eyes and was about to get back to his original question when Connor held up a hand. "But after that, I want you to tell me what you're planning to do about Stephen Underwood."

"What I'm-."

"You're a sentimental person, Hank. But that's not the only reason you decided to go through your old case files last night. There's another reason...and I want to know what it is."

Hank's jaw set.

"Who knows," Connor continued with a sideways glance. "I may be able to help you."

Silence passed between them. Eventually, Hank sighed. Turned. Ambled towards the bathroom.

"I'll start with the shower," he griped over his shoulder.

"I'll take it," came the reply.

With that, Hank slammed the bathroom door and locked it behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

Notes:

 _((I'm going to be taking my time with this story, so if you came for the hurt in hurt/comfort...it's coming. I appreciate your patience.))_

 **Chapter 5: JUNE 22nd, 2039 - PM 3:52:09**

Jimmy's Bar appeared unchanged as the police lieutenant and his android counterpart approached. Detroit in summertime was a stark contrast to the frigid temperatures and overcast skies of winter. The sun reflected strikingly off the glass and steel of the warehouses and shopfronts on either side of the dive. Connor scanned the exterior of the familiar building. A new poster in the window promoting a local band marked the only new feature. With the exception of rain and the cover of night, the bar was exactly as Connor had left it. The same neon sign. The same 'Cash Only' sticker in the right-hand corner of the door frame. Dogs still weren't allowed past the front door. And to his surprise, neither were androids. The same warning was posted on the door front.

-NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED, OWNERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.-

The notice sent a pang of disbelief through Connor's system. His brows, which couldn't help but raise in alarm, furrowed as he processed the words. Despite pages of new legislation...despite weeks of countless debate in the halls of lawmakers across the United States and the fact that the President had declared androids to be a free and intelligent form of life, humans still found ways to ensure that 'plastic' citizens were left out of the equation. That they were deemed secondary. Not alive.

The problem was a large-scale one. As things currently stood, androids were recognized as living beings by law and were protected by almost all of the same rights. Not every state, however, saw things the same way. In many places across America, previous owners continued to seek compensation for their lost 'property.' Several unions, interest groups, and other organized gatherings took to the streets protesting the sudden equality of their android neighbors. Some humans refused to give up their androids altogether, resorting to violence to keep the authorities at bay or their models from escaping. 'Waking' androids had become mandatory for all businesses, including CyberLife. Android volunteers and government sanctioned task forces worked around the clock to locate and liberate any androids still remaining within the confines of their programming or master. Such events, however, brought up painful memories from America's past...and many of the same heartless arguments. Old injustices and calloused thoughtlessness roused the human public to dredge up history among themselves, causing an even more heated and hurtful side effect of the Android Revolution.

Hank must have followed Connor's line of sight.

"Jim's an old friend," he explained simply. "I'm pretty sure I can talk him into it." Without further ceremony, Hank opened the bar door and stepped inside.

(...Talk him into it?) Connor thought, remaining in place. (Talk him into what? Taking down the sign? Or letting me in?)

The Connor that had stood outside the same building in November of last year had seen the sign as an obstacle. Nothing more. It was something that CyberLife might have to pay for. Something he would have to work around to accomplish his mission. But becoming deviant had changed things. This wasn't about inconvenience anymore. This *meant* something. It told him that his presence would not be tolerated-simply because his physical make-up differed from the human ownership of the establishment.

This wasn't fair.

Hank had returned to the doorway. Connor roused his faculties, still thoroughly uninterested in the prospect of being ogled from all sides of the room, and moved to join his friend inside.

The interior hadn't changed either, Connor noted. Due to the hour-a little before four in the afternoon-only a handful of patrons were seated in a booth near the back of the bar. No one occupied the stools. Only the owner, the namesake, was properly visible watching a sports rerun from behind the bar. He glanced at the newcomers, recognition quickly giving way to familiarity.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say that was Hank Anderson coming through my door," he greeted. It was the same man who had served Hank all those months ago. He had tied his dreads back and away from his face, but he appeared relatively unaltered from the somewhat distorted memory Connor had of him. Although Hank was ahead of him, Connor could hear the smile in his reply.

"Long time no see, Jim. Staying out of trouble?"

"You know I am."

Hank slid into the nearest bar stool and Jim crossed over to him, chuckling as he pulled a specific bottle from the middle shelf. He poured Hank a sizable portion and handed it to him. Connor scanned the bottle's contents.

-BLACK LAMB  
-SCOTCH WHISKY  
-40% ALCOHOL CONTENT

The same whisky Hank had been drowning his sorrows with on the night Connor had become a home invader.

"The usual," Jim announced. He stoppered the bottle and set it on the counter in front of Hank. "First one's on me."

"No kidding?" Hank mused gratefully. He lifted the glass, tilted it in Jim's direction. A salute. "What's the catch?"

"I gotta remind you how good you had it here. Otherwise, you may not come back."

The volume of conversation from the back booth rose sharply, catching the bartender's attention. But whatever had been said was laughed off by the rest of the table and he turned back to Hank.

"Where've you been all this time?" Jim asked. "My best customer for years up and disappears without so much as a goodbye. I'm left here wondering if I can make ends meet. You don't know how many bills you paid, Hank."

Hank laughed, shook his head.

"Been busy for a change," he explained. "I decided to give my job a try."

"Oh, yeah?" Jim nodded. "How's that working out for you?"

"Well, I'm back here, aren't I?" Hank quipped. Jim chuckled.

Connor, having given his friend sufficient time to reforge the old acquaintance, took the seat next to Hank. Jim glanced over, recognition dawning as he spotted the LED Connor had yet to remove. It cycled blue as the android nodded in greeting.

"Nice to see you again, Jim," Connor said with a polite smile. "I don't think I introduced myself last time. My name is Connor."

Jim stared at him blankly. He turned to Hank, tilted a thumb in the android's direction.

"Is this one yours?" he asked.

Connor's LED blinked yellow, cycling. Feeling had its disadvantages. It made irrational behavior harder to tolerate. Before Hank could reply, Connor answered for him.

"I don't belong to anyone," he explained evenly, trying to keep the displeasure roiling within him from his tone. "I'm Hank's friend. I wouldn't mind being yours."

Jim seemed to be having a difficult time processing what he was hearing. He looked back to Connor.

"Connor, huh," he noted. The android nodded.

"You're behind the times, Jim," Hank declared, taking a sip of free whisky. "And so's that sign you've got out front."

"Which one: Cash Only? Because I'm not taking any credit from the likes of you."

Hank smiled, but Connor recognized the steady eye contact of a seasoned interrogator in his reply.

"I'm pretty sure we're on the same page here," he said simply.

Jim paused.

"It's like that," he said. Something in that moment changed between them, Connor realized. It wasn't drastic, but something had been lost in the brief exchange. Hank nodded.

"It is."

Jim nodded. Thought for a moment. Nodded again.

"I'll see what I can do," he decided. He gave Connor a brief once-over before moving to the far end of the bar, presumably checking for something to pry the sign free. Connor watched him until he stepped from behind the bar and went outside. The sounds of scraping on wood solidified that the debate was at an end.

Hank took another sip.

"'I wouldn't mind being yours?'" he repeated, giving Connor a sideways smirk. "You sound like a kid's TV host."

"It was either that or something less polite," Connor retorted. "I figured I'd try a different approach." He thought for a moment, sorting through the best description. "I thought it sounded amicable."

"Amicable."

Connor stared derisively in Hank's direction. Hank chuckled. The scraping outside continued.

"Did you fall asleep in the bathtub earlier?" Connor asked, changing the subject.

"As a matter of fact, I did." Hank moved to drink again, but paused, unsettled. "Don't tell me you've got X-Ray vision too."

"Very funny."

"That's a fucking weird question to ask, Connor."

"I thought I heard you snoring. That's all."

"I had a long night."

"And you were hungover. Which is why you didn't wake up until the hot water ran cold."

Hank rolled his eyes, downing the remaining contents. The glass came down hard on the counter and he blew out the burn in his throat.

Connor had protested when Hank had insisted on Jimmy's Bar to catch up. Excessive drinking spelled certain, irreversible damage to his friend's health if he didn't learn to calibrate his intake. Hank had immediately reminded his android companion that it had been Connor's idea to shoot the breeze over drinks the night before. Had Connor known the situation, if he had had more information, he would never had suggested it. But he hadn't known. And Hank wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Jimmy's it was.

"So," Hank began, pouring another round for himself. "Let's back up a little. You wanted to chew the fat; now's your chance." He sipped. "Tell me about D.C."

It was a sizable question.

"I'm not sure where to start," Connor admitted.

"Give me the bullet points. What'd you do? Who'd you meet? I saw some of it on the news, but the press like to polish things up for the public. What happened while you were there?"

Connor thought it over.

"I spoke to the members of Congress and the Senate. They wanted to know about CyberLife's part in what the governing authorities like to call the 'Deviant Event.' They asked me about my missions, what I was designed to do, and the fail-safes set in place in the event that my instructions went beyond the laws of robotics. To tell you the truth, most of the initial lines of questioning were about my life before I became deviant. I answered what I could, but some aspects of the company's influence are still unclear to me. After I had laid the foundation, the questions started getting more...personal."

"Personal?" Hank asked.

"They asked if I had been ordered to release the androids being held in the CyberLife facility or whether I had acted on my own accord. They assured me that, for the time being, no legal action could be taken against me if I explained the situation-since no precedent existed regarding the prosecution of android crimes. I guess they wanted to observe my reaction. Nothing within the law said I was a living being at that point. They were more interested in where the blame was supposed to go."

"So, they wanted you to confess that the CyberLife evacuation was either your fault, or the company's."

Connor nodded.

"I confessed. I told them exactly what happened: I chose that night to liberate those androids. I wasn't prompted by any directive. I didn't receive new instructions. I chose to break into the CyberLife facility, kill the guards that tried to stop me, and release over a thousand androids into the streets of Detroit."

"Then what happened?"

"The media took my story and made whatever they wanted out of it. I was called a liberator by some outlets, a defective machine by others. A plastic vigilante. A murderer. I had taken six human lives in the process, so protesters gathered outside of the hotel where I was staying and demanded that I be deactivated immediately. To them, I was a symbol of their worst fears: that technology had advanced far too rapidly and had outstripped humanity's control over it."

"I saw some of that mess," Hank explained, shaking his head. "Must've been tough."

"It was...a lot to process," Connor agreed. "But I can't say their concerns were unjustified."

"Planning on going Terminator on me, Connor?" Hank jibed.

"Not any time soon," Connor smirked in reply.

Jim appeared once more behind the bar and pointedly tossed the sign in the trash under the counter.

"Done and done. Are we good?"

"You bet," Hank replied genuinely. Jim nodded in reply, folding his arms and turning his attention to the rerun once more.

"Your turn," Connor declared, patting a goading hand on Hank's shoulder. "Why the sudden renewed interest in those case files?"

Hank shrugged the hand off with his usual playful gruffness.

"It's pretty fucking obvious," he rebuffed. "We've been over this."

"I understand what's happening tomorrow. What I don't understand is why you spent all night going over those reports specifically."

"What part isn't making sense to you? The fact that the man responsible for not showing up to my son's surgery is going to walk free tomorrow morning? Or the fact that I said that I didn't want to talk about it? Because it sure seems like you had cotton in your ears for both of those conversations."

"I'm just saying that as someone who works in criminal justice, you should understand why I find that a little...off."

Hank frowned.

"Are you suggesting something?"

"Nothing," Connor replied honestly. "I just wanted to be sure *you* weren't."

"Well, I wasn't. And if I'm sure, you're sure. That's how this works. Drop the interrogation."

Against his better judgement, Connor complied. At least, for the present. The friends fell silent. Hank sipped at his second glass and Connor idly scanned the rerun that Jimmy was riveted to for dates and details.

"I'm sorry, by the way."

It was Hank who broke the stalemate.

"For what?" Connor asked.

"For...what I said this morning. About you being a replacement." The detective's mouth quirked to one side before he continued. "I shouldn't have pulled a stunt like that and...well, I owe you an apology." He tipped back a shot of liquid courage. "If it wasn't for you, I'd have put a bullet in my head a long time ago. You gave me a new perspective. Shook me out of the past. Never thought I'd be okay getting out of bed in the morning again after what happened, but getting to know you-well, you turned things around for me, Connor."

Surprised-and somewhat moved, Connor's gaze briefly blanked before he managed to scrape together a reply.

"I-don't know what to say."

"Here's a tip," Hank smirked. "If you don't know what to say, take the compliment and leave it at that."

Connor smiled.

This was exactly what he'd been hoping for. This was the Hank he'd been expecting to find in the garage the night before. The Hank with a heart. Tough outer shell. Gooey center.

"I'm going back to work tomorrow," Hank announced. "Fowler gave me a week or so off if I wanted but staying cooped up in that house is gonna drive me fucking crazy. I'll stew, is what I'll do. That's what I was doing when you showed up last night. Stewing. Reliving the past like it was yesterday. It puts me in a bad place and makes it easier to reach for a way out."

Hank surveyed the rest of the amber liquor circling in his glass and, to Connor's relief, set it aside. He fished out his wallet from his jacket pocket, tossed a handful of cash on the counter, and wrapped the bar with his knuckles.

"Never a dull moment, Jim," Hank called, standing. Connor followed suit. "You take care of yourself."

"Same to you, Hank," came the reply.

Once outside, Connor couldn't help but glance over the door front with satisfaction.

"Nice job, Lieutenant," he said approvingly. "For a moment there, I thought...well, I wasn't sure what I thought. Thanks for that."

"You thought I'd let old Jim leave your ass on the curb, is that it?" Hank retorted.

"It did cross my mind. You've been having a bad week."

Hank smiled, shook his head. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought and, after arriving at some unknown conclusion, a glimpse of his old spunk returned.

"You know something? I hate when you're right about me. You hit the nail on the head this morning. Fuckin'-A."

Connor scanned Hank for his approximate blood alcohol level. The count was high, but certainly not unmanageable. Still, Connor decided that he would ask for the keys when they returned to the Oldsmobile.

"What'dya say you take a break from all this D.C. nonsense? Stay at my place. Help me as a consultant until this legal circus of yours calms down," Hank offered.

"I'd like that," Connor agreed. "But...what would I be consulting on?"

"Fowler's organizing a task force-an android crimes division. It's a work in progress until the suits in Washington decide what we get to do. But for now, you'd be working with me on a string of android homicides. There's some kinda pattern to the murders and I want you to partner with me to get to the bottom of them."

Such familiarity did wonders for any doubts or uncertainties left in Connor's mind. Just like old times, Lieutenant Anderson and Connor would investigate again.

"I'm in."

Hank smiled.

"Welcome back, kid."


	6. Chapter 6

Notes:

 _((So...I wrote the chapter before this at around two or three in the morning and it bothered me so much that I forged ahead and wrote the next part.))_

 _((Finally. We're moving into the meat of the story.))_

 **Chapter 6: JUNE 23rd, 2039 - AM 10:27:56**

"You're doing what now?"

Bewildered, Captain Fowler passed a sharp look first to Hank, then Connor, then back to Hank again. If it was possible for androids to experience de ja vu, Connor would have been feeling it in that moment. The pair were back in Fowler's office, Hank leaning on the desk like he owned it, Fowler having none of what he was hearing. The only difference was, he realized, himself. He'd taken a seat across from Fowler's desk in lieu of standing, had discarded the CyberLife uniform for…well, a white button up, the same jeans, and a black, tailored business-casual jacket with a high collar.

—But he'd ditched the tie. Baby steps.

"I'm taking over the task force," Hank replied. "Just like you wanted."

Fowler scowled.

"And what happened to you busting up out of here like Vesuvius the other day? I thought you wanted some time off."

"I had time off," Hank retorted. "I'm done with it. I want to get back to work, okay? Since when is that an issue with you?"

"You're not making any sense, Hank."

"How can I make things any clearer?"

"By explaining the sudden change of heart, for one."

Hank threw up his hands.

"Jesus," he griped. "What is with you? And you, too—" he added, seemingly remembering Connor's part in his frustrations, "—while we're naming names. The both of you need to back off and let me deal with this Underwood shit in my own way. I didn't come here to talk about that. I came here to let you know that I'm picking up the task force…and Connor here is going to tag along and back me up."

"—With your permission, of course," Connor interjected.

Fowler's sharp glance met Connor's briefly before staring down his immediate subordinate again.

"You get that today's the release date, right? And that you asking to come back right now makes me want to send you home even more...?"

Hank didn't budge. Fowler took the hint.

"Connor has no authorization to participate in police investigations anymore. He is no longer working in conjunction with CyberLife and he is not a member of this police force. How is it that you just expect me to let him waltz in here with no clearance like it's Bring Your Kid To Work Day? —No offense, Connor."

"None taken."

"I'm hiring him as a consultant," Hank explained.

Fowler let out a bark of a laugh.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I do have extensive knowledge of police procedure, criminal behavior, and have the ability to analyze samples in real time," Connor chimed in once more. "I also have experience in various forms of combat and can—."

"I'm well aware of your credentials," Fowler interrupted, raising a hand. "But I already have androids working for me. Legally."

"There's nothing illegal about hiring a consultant," Connor replied.

"How about one that's under national scrutiny for killing six guards at a CyberLife facility?"

Connor fell silent. What could he say? That he'd acted in self-defense? He glanced at Hank, knowing full well that Fowler had a valid point. The lieutenant caught the look. Frowned. Shook his head.

"What are you worried about?" he asked the captain. "Bad press? Politics? Or is this about covering your own ass?"

"All of the above," Fowler answered. "That's why I'm my ass is in this chair. I have to look out for the entire department. Make sure we all keep our jobs. I don't know about you, but I like the thought of having food on the table."

Fowler wasn't wrong. Connor understood the countless complications and miles of red tape that the captain would be forced to wade through if Hank got his way. There really wasn't a good answer—unless…. An idea struck him.

"There is another option," he suggested. "A fairly simple one, actually. List me as a volunteer."

Both Hank and Fowler paused, listening.

"I could work alongside Hank in the investigation without pay. Technically speaking, I'd be doing the work of a consultant, but as a volunteer, my official status would be that of a paper pusher."

"It's true," Hank agreed. "Android volunteers don't have the same restrictions as humans do."

"Not yet, anyway," Connor continued. "On the record, I would be volunteering my time and expertise to assist in whatever way I can. Off the record…."

"You do what you do best," Fowler finished.

A small smile broke through Connor's veneer of professionalism. He couldn't have said it better himself.

"Who's paying for his motel room?" The captain asked.

"He's staying with me for now," Hank explained. "I've got it covered."

The captain studied Connor in silence. Glanced out of the office's glass paneling. Sighed.

"This is…highly irregular. And I don't like it."

"But—," Hank prodded.

"Don't expect any more favors from me in the future," Fowler griped. "I'm running out of fucks to give."

Hank's smile had a sarcastic bent, but his tone was genuine.

"Thanks, Jeffrey," he said, straightening. He motioned for Connor to follow him.

"You better have a case to show me by the end of the week," Fowler insisted.

"Oh, I think we can do better than that," Hank smirked. The lieutenant opened the door and paused, leaving room for Connor to pass by.

"Go see Nathan," Fowler added, tacking one final directive to the conversation. "He's a VB800 model. Should have a desk around here somewhere. He'll fill you in on the details."

In the few seconds it took for Hank to join Connor at the bottom of the steps, Connor had scanned and identified the VB800 model in question. The android was seated two desks down, wearing an officer's uniform—LED removed. His face resembled the same model as that of the small army released from CyberLife Headquarters. Absently, Connor wondered if he had, indeed, been one of that number. Nathan stood as they approached. Judging by the sudden smile on his face, the RK800's suspicions weren't far off.

"You're Connor," Nathan grinned.

"—Yes," Connor replied awkwardly. He attempted the same small smile that he'd pulled on Jeffrey, but something about being recognized messed with his software. What was he supposed to do with unwanted attention if he didn't want to lie his way through it? "That's…my name," he eventually settled on.

"You must be Nathan," Hank said. Connor was grateful for the interruption. "It's a pleasure."

"The pleasure's all mine, Lieutenant Anderson," Nathan replied, breaking eye contact with Connor only long enough for the simple introduction. Before he could be dissuaded, Nathan pressed on. "I remember you. I mean—I've kept up with the media coverage about you, but I was there that night. At CyberLife. You freed me."

Despite his discomfort, Connor couldn't help but detect Nathan's sincerity.

"I did what I felt was the right thing to do," Connor explained simply, his smile genuine. "I'm glad to see you in a uniform you got to choose."

Nathan patted Connor warmly on the shoulder.

"Enough about me," he said, switching gears. "How can I help you both?"

"I'm taking over the Android Crimes task force. At the moment, I'm mainly interested in any information you could give us about the string of murders reported during the last month. The weird ones."

Nathan frowned. "You mean, the harvested victims."

Now it was Connor's turn to balk.

"Harvested?" he asked Nathan. "What do you mean by that?"

Nathan waved the pair to the terminal on his desk and pulled up the files in question. Connor surveyed the names, models, and serial numbers in rapid succession, quickly noting that no correlation existed physically among the murdered androids. The method, however….

"The whole process seems oddly organized," Nathan explained. "Each victim is found opened, relieved of several vital bio-components, and completely drained of thirium."

Connor's brow furrowed.

"Drained how?"

"Hard to say," Nathan replied. "But each android investigator noted that the presence of evaporated thirium was minimum at best."

"Meaning that somebody's collecting body parts," Hank concluded, disgusted.

"It would seem so," Nathan agreed.

"The question is—why," Connor mused. "Why murder innocent androids for bio-components when CyberLife is still manufacturing replacement parts and blue blood?"

"Could be a hate crime," Hank suggested. "But that wouldn't explain why the killer decided to be so clean about it."

"Maybe…an obsessive behavior? Some irrational compulsion?" Nathan thought out loud.

"Were there fingerprints on any of the victims?" Connor asked Nathan. He didn't like where his conclusions were leading.

"Not all of them," the officer replied. "But we managed to lift a few off of almost half."

Then again—maybe his conclusions were wrong.

"Another android was killed less than an hour ago, if you'd like to inspect one of the scenes for yourselves," informed Nathan.

"Sounds like a start," Hank said. "Thanks for the help."

"Any time."

Hank headed for the entry, clearly focused on the task at hand. Connor thanked Nathan as well and quickly fell in step with the lieutenant. An unpleasant feeling suddenly tugged at Connor's attention…that same nagging sensation from the day he'd been dismissed from Hank's garage. The subtle, buried unease he'd felt then had been gradually gnawing more and more at Connor. It had been given a purpose during their argument the previous day. It had quieted after their conversation at Jimmy's Bar. But now…now it crept back into his awareness…and it hadn't taken him long to notice.

He knew the answer already. There was probably no point in asking. But before Hank officially stepped back into his duties complete with all of the stress, pressure, and constant risk, Connor made one final play for the information he knew had to be lurking just beneath the surface. And for a confirmation he needed to hear.

To Hank's bewilderment, Connor pulled him aside just as he was about to pass through the glass doors to the waiting area.

"Woah, hey. What're you—?"

Connor released Hank's arm, fixing Anderson with as much sincerity as he could muster onto his features.

"Just…one thing before we go."

Something landed, because Hank merely listened. He almost looked concerned.

"Those files from yesterday."

Hank rolled his eyes, but he seemed to recognize that whatever was coming next was genuine. He remained quiet.

"You said they were nothing. Just some old case files you kept around that had to do with Cole." Connor hesitated. "That's…all they are, right? You aren't hoping to find something that you missed about Stephen Underwood. You aren't looking for a loophole in the law. You aren't risking your career over this. You're just…sentimental."

Hank held Connor's gaze in a moment of steady silence before nodding.

"That's right. I hang onto them for my own personal reasons. That's all."

If Hank wasn't telling the truth, he didn't seem to know it.

"If that's the case, I want you to do something for me."

"That's two things now," Hank said, his voice lacking real sarcasm. Connor didn't flinch.

"I want you to say that you aren't going to take any unnecessary risks going forward. I want to hear it."

Hank sighed. "Connor."

"The job is dangerous. Things happen randomly. That's not what I'm talking about. I just want to know that I can trust you to value your own safety. I won't be able to fully concentrate on the investigation if I know you don't care what happens to you. So, please." His jaw set. "Just say it."

Hank didn't seem to know how to respond. Despite the bend of his brow, he almost looked…moved. Whatever he was feeling, he mastered himself with practiced ease.

"I'm not gonna take any unnecessary risks," he recited.

And as far as Connor could tell, he meant it.

"But that reminds me."

Now what.

Hank smirked.

"You're gonna need a gun."


	7. Chapter 7

Notes:

 _((To create the Connor I write in this story, you have to earn FRIEND status with Hank before Stratford Tower...and must have successfully avoided death in all previous chapters. This Connor is largely GREEN, with hints of stubborn BLUE from time to time. If Connor sacrifices himself for Hank at Stratford Tower and Hank has never seen him die before, you unlock a special reaction at the Kamski chapter opening. If you solve the case, become a deviant, and earn the Peaceful Protest ending, you'll have the beginning of this story.))_

 **Chapter 7: JUNE 23rd, 2039 - PM 12:22:24**

"Yuni-an LJ200 model. Reported missing by one Mrs. Strickland."

Hank surveyed the scene before him. Human and android officers marked, scanned, and collected various sources of interest. Connor knelt, two fingers to the ground and-before Hank could stop him, in his mouth. There were no signs of a struggle in the alley, no scuffs or cuts. Just the victim. Middle opened. Robbed of blue blood and several crucial biocomponents.

"According to the call, Yuni visited Mrs. Strickland every Monday without fail to read to the older woman-who is legally blind," Connor continued, standing. "When Yuni didn't show, Mrs. Strickland contacted the authorities. An officer found her this morning."

Hank blew out a sigh, shaking his head. 'Senseless' came to mind.

"Doesn't look like she put up much of a fight," he said, stepping towards the body for a closer look. Empty, plastic eyes stared up at him. "Poor girl."

"There's no thirium trail," Connor announced, glancing diligently back and forth, up and down. "She obviously wasn't killed here. Just dumped."

The beautiful, fine features of the victim's face hadn't slacked like a human's would have, Hank noted. Instead, they set firm...a rigid, unsettling reminder that even androids couldn't cheat death forever.

"What all's she missing?" Hank asked Connor. His partner's gaze immediately dropped to the deceased, scanning. Focused. He reached a full analysis in less than five seconds. Deviant or not, the kid was fucking efficient.

"Her thirium pump for one," Connor began. "An internal regulator." He paused, catching Hank's eye. "I won't bore you with the part numbers, but she's been relieved of all essential biocomponents. Her blue blood count is at less than 14%. This wasn't a random act of violence or a crime of passion. This was meticulous, premeditated murder."

"Shit," Hank drawled in disgust. "That's just fantastic."

Connor nodded, somber.

"Now we just need to find out who would want to do something like this. And why," Hank surmised.

"Biocomponents aren't cheap," Connor suggested, hand resting briefly on his chin. Although any thirium his partner might've touched had long since evaporated, Hank just knew there had to be some left on his fingertips. He couldn't help but grimace. "But CyberLife still manufactures parts and replacements."

"Just because something's available to buy doesn't mean anything," Hank replied. "People kill other people for all kinds of reasons. CyberLife may still be up and running, but they're buried in sanctions and regulations. They've gotta be back-ordered up to their eyeballs...especially now that the majority of their customers need what they're selling to survive."

Connor thought the point over.

"And there's another thing you've gotta consider," Hank continued. "Biocomponents aside, I know one very good use for thirium that may play a factor in all this."

Connor waited, obviously at a loss. Or pretending to be. Sometimes Hank wondered if Connor cut occasional corners to be more relatable. At any rate, he didn't seem to follow.

"Red Ice. I pretty much built my career off the stuff. One of the active ingredients in Red Ice is-."

"Thirium," Connor processed aloud.

"Exactly. Whoever did this may have had a vested interest in resale."

Connor frowned.

"We need more evidence to say for sure," he concurred. "So far, all we have are guesses."

Hank looked up at the surrounding buildings, checking for cameras. Nothing. The bastard responsible had thought things through.

"If she was in better shape, I'd say we should try to reactivate her," Hank noted, shaking his head. "No way that's gonna happen."

"Her memory would be too corrupted," Connor replied. "Even if we put her back together from scratch, she'd probably have no idea who she was before or what happened to her."

A siren sounded behind the two investigators. Hank turned, spotting the ambulance just as it rolled to a stop outside the alley. A team of medical professionals climbed out of the vehicle to collect the body. Hank let out a mirthless chuckle.

"They've gotta come up with a better way of doing this," he mused.

"Doing what?" Connor asked, stepping up beside him.

"What's a team of paramedics gonna do for an android? This one's beyond hope, but if things had been different, what then?"

"Licensed diagnostic facilities," his partner explained. "They're being set up across the country. Detroit has several functioning repair centers. They're a work in progress, but in an emergency, they're the best place to go." He smirked over at Hank. "No one seems to know how billing's going to work though."

Hank's laugh was genuine.

"Some problems are the same across the board, then," Hank smiled.

-BZZT -BZZT -BZZT

The phone in Hank's coat pocket buzzed to life. Fishing it free took a second, but he finally managed to accept the call.

"Anderson," he announced.

"Lieutenant, this is Officer Nathan. We met this morning."

"I recall," Hank replied, bored. For a deviant, Nathan decidedly lacked an interesting personality. Fowler sure knew how to pick 'em.

"I have an update for you-an informant. DPD received a call from a tipster 13 minutes ago asking to speak with you. He disconnected when he was informed you weren't at the station, but I traced the location of the call."

"Hold on-someone asked for me by name?" Hank asked, scowling. Who the hell would know to ask for him personally? Beside him, Connor shot Hank a questioning look.

"Yes, sir," Nathan replied. "He asked for Hank Anderson. He wouldn't give his name, but he said he had an important piece of information that he wanted to let you in on."

"What did he sound like?" Hank insisted. For the life of him, he couldn't think of anyone that would want to contact him. Suspicion kept cops alive...and his every instinct kicked on high alert.

"His accent was very...human," explained Nathan. "Before he ended the call, he insisted that you were left a message...that he 'owed you for last month's run.'"

Hank's frown deepened, but suddenly the pieces clicked into place. Recognition banished suspicion, but confusion remained. Connor waited, clearly uneasy.

"What's that location?" Hank asked.

"I'm sending it to you now," Nathan replied. "I would advise caution on this, sir."

"If it's who I think it is, he's right. He does owe me."

With that, Hank ended the call.

"What was that all about?" Connor asked.

"A detour," Hank said, stuffing the phone back in his pocket. He stepped aside as the paramedics hustled past him.

"You're going to have to be more specific," Connor pressed. Hank couldn't help but smile at the concern. He raised a hand in dismissal.

"Relax," he said. "It's Pedro."

Connor paused, obviously thinking back. When he'd come to the right conclusion, his brows rose in understanding.

"Pedro Aabdar," he remembered. "Your gambling buddy."

"Thanks for sharing with the rest of the class," Hank retorted, giving the other officers milling about a sideways glance. The android followed his line of sight. "But, yeah. That Pedro."

Connor's lower lip quirked to the side apologetically. Hank had only seen him pull that face on a handful of occasions, but he never failed to get a kick out of it.

"Right. Yes..." Connor fumbled awkwardly. "'That Pedro.'"

"Come on," Hank announced, amused. He patted Connor on the shoulder as he headed towards the Oldsmobile. "Let's go hear what he has to say."

Connor hesitated.

"Does this have anything to do with the case...?" he asked behind Hank.

"Probably not," Hank shrugged, pulling open the driver's side door. "But Pedro doesn't call the station. He calls me. If he worked up the guts to call in a tip, something's wrong. I'm doing him a solid."

He didn't fully agree...or maybe Connor didn't fully understand, Hank surmised. But despite whatever was floating around in his processing, Connor followed suit and climbed into the passenger seat.

The antique engine roared to life.

"I admire your sense of loyalty, Hank."

Hank set the sent location in his phone's GPS and pulled the car onto the road. There was a 'but' coming.

"But we're in the middle of an investigation. Wouldn't it be easier to just...call him? See if it's really important?"

Hank chuckled sarcastically. Connor blinked.

"What?"

"Sometimes I forget you're new to all this."

There was the frown.

"If you're talking about becoming deviant, it's been over six months now," he said.

"All I'm saying is that you don't know everything there is to know about how real life works," Hank replied simply.

"Real life?" Connor insisted.

"Look," Hank explained. "Things aren't always as...linear...as you might want them to be. What do you know about Pedro?"

"He's a con man," Connor replied. "Several counts of illegal gambling and fraud. A handful of petty crimes. If there's money involved, he seems to be interested."

"That's one way of looking at it, but there's more to it than that. You just told me a list of what he's done. But the guy himself...what can you tell me about who he is?"

Connor fell silent, perplexed. The Oldsmobile pulled onto a major thoroughfare and the Hawaiian dancer atop the dash swayed. Hank continued.

"That's what I'm talking about," he pointed out. "You know 'about' people. Hell, you know 'about' me. But do you 'know' them? Really understand where they're coming from?"

His partner stared unhappily at the road outside of the windshield.

"Do you have a problem with me, Hank?"

The question caught Hank off guard.

"What? No! I was just trying to get you to-."

"You shouldn't lie, Lieutenant. You know I was programmed to spot tells."

Frustration boiled in Hank's belly. He wasn't interested in being analyzed at the moment and hadn't intended to start something.

"I'm not lying, Connor. I just wanted you to think a little bigger. That's all. -And you need to drop the 'programmed' talk. I thought you were past all that."

Connor obviously didn't buy it. At least, that's what Hank initially thought. The android's lips thinned into a firm line and he kept his eyes forward. Then...

"For some reason, I thought when I came back from D.C. we would pick up right where we left off. I'd go back to Detroit, find a place to live, apply at the police station. I imagined it over and over again-I was going to stop by your house, invite you to catch up over drinks, and...start life from there. Things were just going to fall into place."

Hank, taken by surprise, waited.

"There are times when I feel like I understand myself very well. Emotionally driven self-awareness wasn't something I was prepared for. It wasn't...it isn't easy. Not always. Even now."

Connor shook his head. Disappointment etched itself into his downcast face.

"Life isn't linear. You're right. But I was designed for a destination. When I was given an assignment, I completed it in the most effective way I could. There was always a Point A and a Point B...and in cases where an unexpected Point C got in the way, I removed it as an option by whatever means necessary. At least, that was the idea. But life...real life...isn't simple at all. There are no guarantees, no predetermined outcomes. Following orders gave me a mission to accomplish. Choosing to wake up-to be who I really am-it's harder than being a machine ever was."

Hank didn't know what to say. One pointed thought crossed his mind, however. He'd been so busy preoccupied with his own shit that he hadn't stopped to think about how Connor was doing. Sure, he'd asked about D.C., but where'd the heart been in that?

For fuck's sake.

"...And here I am talking about 'knowing' people," Hank said apologetically.

"I don't know what it is." Connor forged ahead. "I'm not sure where it's really coming from, because what's happening with Underwood isn't the whole picture. But-you didn't want to see me in garage that night. You didn't want me in your house the next day. You didn't really want to go to Jimmy's Bar despite what you said and unless I'm wrong, you don't want me in this car right now."

Hank began to protest, but the steady, knowing look leveled in his direction killed the words in his mouth. He stopped short, thought it over. The bad news he'd gotten...the memories conjured up-they'd really messed with his head in ways he hadn't experienced in quite some time. But having Connor around again had helped. It had. It was good to have him back. It was good to see him.

So why did he feel like Connor was-right?

Shame sunk in Hank's gut like a load of bricks. What the fuck was the problem? Why didn't he want the kid around? Truth be told, he'd missed the hell out of him while he was away, but the second Hank had seen him ambling up from behind a stack of boxes, he'd wanted nothing to do with him. It wasn't fair. Connor had done nothing wrong. Stepping back from the situation, Hank could honestly say that Connor was a true friend. The android had even gone so far as to die for him when a deviant assailant had decided to fill the lobby of the broadcasting room at Stratford Tower full of holes. If he stopped-mentally boiled down the tumultuous mess of denial that wanted to not have a reason to feel about Connor-one answer came to the surface without fail.

Deep down, where it counted, Connor was like a son to him.

And that was the problem.


	8. Chapter 8

Notes:

 _((For fuck's sake...I gotta stop writing at three AM. The last chapter was so lazy. OOF. My pledge from now on: if it's in the wee hours of the AM...CALL IT QUITS.))_

 _((Thanks for sticking by me. ^.^ ))_

 **Chapter 8: JUNE 23rd, 2039 - PM 1:34:29**

"Pedro, it's Hank. Open up."

Pedro's residence, tucked away on the third floor of a particularly well-worn apartment building, was new to Anderson. The two met occasionally to swap dollars and Hank had gathered a pretty complete picture of the kid's life from the stories they'd exchanged. But there had been no need to know where he lived-until now. Pedro didn't have the cleanest record and tended to take his problems into his own hands. He knew better than to contact the police station and had way more sense than outright asking for Hank by name.

Muffled steps. The sound of sliding-presumably a chain lock on the door. Two more locks, click-click. Pedro appeared in the doorway.

"Hank and-friend! Welcome, welcome!" he greeted, waving for Hank and Connor to come inside. "I gotta say, you're looking pretty-." Pedro's facetious smile turned into an exaggerated frown. "I was gonna say 'good' but, damn. Skipping naps or what?"

"You calling me ugly?" Hank quipped. Pedro laughed.

"Hey-you said it, not me." Spotting Connor, he nodded in the android's direction. "A plastic?"

"This is Connor," Hank introduced, getting ahead of the impolite reference. "He's a friend." Behind him, Connor said nothing. Probably nodded.

Practiced liar that he was, Pedro couldn't keep the subtle note of anxiety from his grin. He peered over Hank's shoulder and down the hall before gesturing for them to enter once more.

"Come inside, take a load off!" he pressed.

"We're not staying," Hank replied. "I'm kinda busy here, Pedro. What's this about you calling up at the station?"

"Sure you don't wanna talk it out over a beer? I don't bite."

Hank leveled an even frown in Pedro's direction. The man hesitated. Caved.

"Okay, look," he said, voice lowered. His weight shifted back and forth on nervous feet. "There's this guy a few doors down. Moved in a few weeks ago-Room 309. My man's been pretty quiet, so I didn't think about him until a couple nights ago. He started having company over."

"Company?" Connor asked over Hank's shoulder.

"The fun kind?" Hank suggested.

"Plastic," Pedro answered. Hank managed a private glance in Connor's direction. Whatever the kid was thinking, it wasn't on his face. He'd been decidedly more measured since silence had ended their car chat.

"Androids, huh," Hank thought out loud. "Care to tell me why I should worry about that?"

Again, Pedro shot a look down the hallway. He rubbed his hands together unwittingly as he answered.

"They were carrying. All of them. Coming in groups of two or three at a time. They'd show up like that and leave with a bag a piece. Now, you don't bother me, I don't bother you. But..." he bit his lower lip. "There's kids up here, man. I don't know what's going on, but it's got to stop."

Hank nodded, thoughtful.

"Why didn't you just shoot me a text?" he asked. Classic Pedro returned in the form of a guilty grin.

"Lost my phone to a bad tip," he shrugged. "Lost your number with it. I got my girl's phone until next week's payout."

Hank chuckled, shaking his head. So much for a crisis.

"For fuck's sake."

"And when the money comes in, it's got your name on it!" Pedro promised.

"What, so you can call up the police station again? Let my boss know you have my pony money? No thanks."

"I'll make it up to you one of these days," Pedro insisted. "My word is gold, my friend."

"Yeah, yeah," Hank smirked. "Get back inside."

With a fox-like wink and a two-fingered salute, Pedro complied. The three locks clicked and slid back into place, leaving Hank and Connor in the hallway. The two stood in silence for a moment, Hank going over Pedro's complaint, Connor...thinking whatever it was Connor thought. Awkward silence prevailed for far longer than was comfortable.

Hank cleared his throat.

"What do you think?" he asked. Connor didn't answer. His gaze moved intently over each door in the hall. "Armed androids coming and going with goodie bags. Sounds like something we haven't dealt with before."

"It would seem so," he replied. Without ceremony, he passed Hank by and moved towards Room 309. Frowning, Hank followed.

"Okay, so...any ideas as to what might be going on in there?" he persisted.

"A few, yes," Connor replied. He stopped short. Hank nearly ran into him, but his partner didn't move.

"What's the holdup?"

"The door..." Connor said slowly. The look on his face put a knot in Hank's gut. "It's...covered...in blue blood."

"What?" Hank moved to Connor's side, getting a better look-realizing quickly that it had evaporated and he wouldn't be able to see shit.

"I count at least-six different models...across several different days."

Hank's hand went to his gun. Connor did the same. The android's suspicious gaze met Hank's, quickly glanced at the door frame, then back to Hank. The message was clear: 'I'll take the left, you take the right.'

Got it.

Without another word, each moved into position and chambered a shot.

"Hello?" Connor called, knocking twice. No answer. "DPD, open up!"

"No warrant, no police!" yelled a voice from inside. "Go away!"

"Last chance!" Connor shot back. "Open the door or I'll do it FOR YOU."

Silence.

That was his cue. Connor drove his full weight against the door and the old wood splintered around the knob. One sound kick to the weakened lock and the door whipped open.

Someone fired.

Heat and sudden impact caught Hank by surprise and he stumbled backwards.

"SHIT!"

Patting down his side, Hank quickly located a torn hole in his jacket pocket. Luckily, his phone was the only casualty.

"Hands where I can see them!" It was Connor. Hank looked up and spotted his partner looming over a thin, middle-aged man with a sizable gash on his forehead. It was openly weeping blood into his eyes and he squinted awkwardly up at Connor. Slowly, deliberately, the man raised both hands and locked them behind his head. Connor quickly confiscated the man's discarded weapon, his own gun still trained on the assailant.

"Thanks a lot, asshat," the suspect griped, wincing.

"Hank?!" Connor called, not breaking eye contact with the unhappy tenant.

"I'm okay," Hank reassured him. Tucking his weapon into his belt, he joined Connor. The man looked back and forth between the two of them. Despite everything, he still seemed bent on having them removed.

"You can't just barge into my house and kick in my door!" he spat, glaring up at Connor. "I have my rights!"

"You have the right to remain silent," Connor suggested. "Let's start with that one."

Hank couldn't help but smirk.

"This is outrageous!" the man insisted.

"Your door is covered with thirium, the blue blood that powers android biocomponents," Connor replied, accusing. "Explain that."

The man hesitated. His eyes darted to a nearby closet. Hank watched Connor follow the glance, his brown eyes widening in surprise. Quickly, he took in several spots all around the room, clearly unnerved.

"More traces?" Hank guessed. Connor shook his head in disbelief.

"It's everywhere," he announced. "Trailed all over the place. The table, the closet. The floor. Traces on the wall." He scowled down at the suspect. "On him."

Following his gut, Hank moved to the nearby closet and slowly pushed open the sliding door.

"Holy shit..." he breathed.

There, lined on ordered shelves, were stacks of various biocomponents. Legs, arms, and regulators Hank recognized. The remaining odd assortment looked more-internal.

"Happy?" snapped the suspect.

"What's your name?" Hank ordered.

"Clive."

"Do you have a last name, Clive?"

"Tomlin."

"What exactly are you planning on doing with all these body parts, Mr. Tomlin?" Hank asked.

"I...I sell 'em."

"Oh, yeah? To who, androids?"

"To whoever wants 'em."

"A witness stated that several androids were seen coming and going over the past week from this room, armed," Connor said. "Were they purchasing biocomponents from you?"

"Fuck no." Tomlin lowered his head. "They're-I'm fucked for this anyway, right? No shot I'm staying home tonight?"

"None," Connor confirmed sharply. Tomlin bit his lower lip. Shook his head. Sighed.

"They're my runners. I'm just the, uh...supply depot of sorts. Some of them bring me the parts. Some of them take them away. They all go to the same place anyway. Plastics nowadays pay a shit-ton for CyberLife leftovers."

"You said 'they all go to the same place,'" Connor said, weapon still trained at the man's head. Blood glistened on the barrel where he'd clocked Clive in the scuffle. "Where are these biocomponents being run to?"

Tomlin smiled.

"The Blue Market."

Hank laughed.

"You gotta be shitting me."

"He asked, fucker," Tomlin retorted. "Androids can't afford what CyberLife's cranking out anymore. They make parts hard to get-especially the important ones. So, some improvise. It's not a place you can go to, it's people like me who are trying to make a living. We find used components, dust 'em off, sell them on. It's that simple."

"A network," Connor concluded.

"Give the boy a prize," Tomlin smirked. Hank stepped forward and hefted Clive to his feet. Fishing a set of cuffs from his other jacket pocket, he slapped them on Tomlin and shoved him towards the door.

"Connor, call in a team to get down here and go over the place."

"On it," Connor replied. His LED cycled and he blinked twice before rattling off a report to the DPD.

As Hank and Clive reached the doorway, Hank glanced back at Connor. His partner had ended the call and was meticulously going through the biocomponent stash. He looked disturbed. Each component meant a possible life lost. Hank felt the weight of responsibility such a collection signaled. They had to find out more. He had to get some concrete answers.

And he had to talk to Connor.

Their conversation in the Oldsmobile had left a sour taste in his mouth and he wanted to get rid of it for good. Hank knew his head was a little all over the place, understood that he'd been distant. He needed Connor to know that they were friends, that he wanted to hear about D.C. and have him drop by whenever he damn-well felt like it. The pain of losing Cole, the injustice of it, had been in the driver's seat of Hank's life for too long...and he knew that too. But separating the past from the present meant letting go. It meant moving on.

Connor meant moving on.

That was what he would have to explain to the android. He hadn't felt that way before Connor had left for Washington. He hadn't needed to process anything except for the very strange reality that his best friend was a robot. But when the Underwood release came out of the blue, bringing with it all of the same, sickening emotions and unanswerable questions, he'd been stuck with two surprises: Connor coming back into his life at the same time. That had caused some overlap. Unfair, true. But it'd happened. Hank needed to suck it up, tighten his belt, and talk about it.

And he'd do that...later.


	9. Chapter 9

Notes:

 _((Detroit: Become Human has sold over 2 million copies! Bravo, guys!))_

 _((Another friend came over to finish her game a few nights ago, accidentally hit the wrong button, killed both Hank and Connor, and spent over an hour and a half going back and replaying the game so that she could fix her mistake. Cracked me up.))_

 **Chapter 9: JUNE 24th, 2039 - AM 2:18:03**

Rain pelted Connor's synthetic features, dripped from his chin. The drizzle left droplets in his simulated hair but did not soak through. Just ahead of him, Hank hurried across the street towards the parking garage. Already, strands of grey had slicked to his jaw and beard. June in Detroit certainly wasn't November. Still, 58.3 degrees Fahrenheit had to be uncomfortable to Anderson, especially damp.

The day's discovery had turned into a late night of cataloguing, research, and questioning. After careful analysis, it was determined that the grotesque collection belonged to—at minimum—26 different androids. Clive Tomlin, their star suspect, had seemingly decided that his helpfulness had ended the moment he stepped into the police station. While he never recanted his earlier confession, Clive refused to name names, divulge locations, or suggest a starting point for investigators. No amount of pressure or coercion held any sway over him. He'd given them enough, he argued. Done his part. And unlike android perpetrators, his memory wasn't available for examination.

The late night had soon given way to early morning.

"Hop in," Hank directed. He'd found the Oldsmobile and was settling himself in the front seat. He was tired. It didn't take a scan for Connor to come to that conclusion. The engine grumbled to life as the lieutenant pulled the door shut and waited. For the briefest of moments, Connor hesitated. Work had pushed the answerless questions aside for hours, but now…the intolerable strain of silence waited for him, followed by a long, tedious night as a guest in house he no longer felt welcome in.

Despite the impending solitude, Connor knew he wouldn't be able to refuse. Hank buried and dismissed the unwanted in his personal life-a fact the android had learned within the first few hours of meeting the man. Beneath the layers of a hard day's exhaustion and the lateness of the hour, Hank was still struggling. A scab of sorts had been ripped free without warning in his friend's life and, knowing Hank, the news would sting for some time after. Right now, he—Connor—was the unwanted element. But deep down, the android understood there was more to the story. At least, he hoped there was.

(We're friends…whether he wants to admit or not,) Connor decided mentally. And friends didn't let the prospect of discomfort stop them from being available when things got difficult. Passenger seat it was.

Hank maneuvered the lengthy Oldsmobile out of the parking garage with a practiced idleness, his mind clearly on other things. Connor watched him from the corner of his eye. Hank leaned back heavily in the seat, his shoulders not quite as square as the android was accustomed to. He blinked heavily between extended intervals of absently staring at the road ahead and he had the air conditioning on when, by all accounts, it should have been the heater.

Hank needed rest.

"It's late," Connor ventured. "Why don't I drive?"

"Home's not far," Hank replied reflexively.

Connor paused. He wasn't wrong. Still….

?—INSIST—?  
—.LET IT GO.—

Hank was stubborn. But the situation wasn't dangerous. If Hank wanted to drive, Connor would be there to make sure he didn't fall asleep on the way home. Quickly, he did a once-over scan, sifting through his immediate options.

SYNC DONE —  
PROCESSING DATA —  
COMPLETE.

***MUSIC***  
***ROLL DOWN WINDOWS***  
***GAME***  
***CONVERSATION***

↑MUSIC↑: Hank liked music. It seemed to be a constant, one that wouldn't cause any immediate resistance. In truth, Connor had no idea what to select, but anything at a modest volume seemed acceptable.

↓ROLL DOWN WINDOWS↓: While the cool air might do Anderson some good, he already had the air conditioning running. And Connor seriously doubted Hank wanted to be further rained on.

↓GAME↓: Competitive goals often succeeded in distracting humans from unpleasant situations, but bleary-eyed Hank seemed to be focusing most of his energy on staying awake. A game might serve to compromise his concentration.

↑CONVERSATION↑: Possibly uncomfortable, but sure to keep Hank's focus. If Connor could avoid particularly volatile topics, he might be able to maintain a safe level of mental engagement from his friend.

The radio was antique, but Connor managed to locate the correct knob and turn it on. A news anchor rattled off a report through the garbled static—***WRONG STATION. Connor turned the knob again and a synth-pop beat interrupted the brief silence—***TOO MODERN. He turned again…a sports update—***IN SPANISH.

"What are you doing?" Hank asked.

"I thought some music might be nice," Connor replied, switching stations again. Classical/Instrumental-***NOT ENOUGH ENERGY.

Connor got the sense that Hank was watching him, but neither said anything about it as the android fumbled through station after station in search of something that sounded mildly like Jazz, Classic Rock, or Heavy Metal. After a few more stations, Hank stopped him.

"Here," he said, pressing a smaller button above the knob. Instantly, the lively beat of a classic rock band hit Connor's audio processors.

"How did you do that?" Connor asked, opting for Hank's explanation over a scanned answer.

"It's a preset," Hank replied. "Back before people had the technology to ask a radio to play what you wanted to listen to, they had these. It saves the stations you like so you don't have to go looking for them every time."

Connor nodded, interested. Saving the information.

"Clever," he said. Now that MUSIC was out of the way, he felt he could safely move on to CONVERSATION. "Human adaptability really is something."

Hank chuckled to himself.

"Why is it that you like some music over others?" Connor asked.

"You tell me," Hank shrugged. "It's all about taste. Connection. Maybe a sound reminds you of an ex. Makes you feel like you could take on the world. Pulls a memory up out of thin air. Pisses you off. People listen to music for all kinds of reasons."

Connor listened.

"I used to play bass," Hank told his partner. "Don't think I've mentioned it before."

"You haven't," Connor replied. He'd seen the instrument in Hank's garage, however.

***BASS GUITAR, TWO STRINGS MISSING***

"Back in high school," Hank continued. "Me and a couple other guys used to get together and play on the weekends. Even booked a bar or two."

"I didn't know that." Impressed with this new page in the background of Hank Anderson, Connor continued. "Do you still remember how to play?"

Hank snorted in amusement.

"Fuck if I know," he answered. "I haven't touched a bass in over twenty years."

"Why not?" Connor insisted.

"Guess I grew up," Hank replied simply. "Life happens. People get married, head to college. Start careers. When we stopped playing, I had other things to do."

"What about playing as a hobby?" Connor suggested.

"Oh, I did for a while," Hank explained, his face briefly illuminated by a passing vehicle. He didn't look quite as tired as before. ***SUCCESS***

"You should find the time to play again," Connor said decidedly. "Music obviously means a lot to you. And hobbies are a good way to reduce stress. You should consider it."

Hank nodded to himself.

"I hadn't thought about it," he admitted. "I may do that sometime."

The Oldsmobile breaks creaked in protest as Hank slowed to a stop. They had arrived. Through the rain-streaked window, the porchlight glowed yellow. Hank cut the engine and climbed out of his seat with Connor following suit from the passenger side. The two quickly escaped the rain, sheltering under the porch as Hank fumbled with his keys. Eventually, he got the front door unlocked.

Sumo's large tail swept back and forth in lazy excitement as Connor and Hank entered the house. Connor teased the dog's ears before slipping out of his soggy jacket. Hank locked up and peeled out of his coat, tossing it over the back of his desk chair. He kicked off his muddy shoes near the door and padded in socked feet towards the kitchen, presumably to find something that resembled dinner at two in the morning. Connor, who had no immediate desire to remove his less-soiled shoes, examined them for excess dirt before heading to the kitchen. He pulled a chair from the table and sat backwards in it, arms crossed and comfortably resting on the backrest.

"If it's alright with you, I think I'll stay in the living room tonight," he announced.

"Make yourself at home," Hank replied over his shoulder. He'd pulled a skillet from one of the cabinets and a carton of eggs from the refrigerator. Already, food popped and crackled on the stovetop. "Just don't do that thing where you power off in the middle of the hallway. Scared the shit out of me last time."

Remembering the incident, Connor smiled.

"Got it."

Connor watched with absent interest as Hank doused his freshly scrambled eggs with hot sauce. He poured the concoction into a bowl, grabbed a fork and a seat across from the android, and dug in. Scanning the ingredients, Connor noted with inner approval that the calorie count was sufficiently lower than Hank's usual meals.

"You doing okay? With all this?"

The sudden question took Connor by surprise. When he didn't answer, Hank continued.

"The android murders," he explained. Took a bite. Swallowed. "What we found today was a whole new level of messed up."

Connor thought for moment.

"I'm not exactly happy about it," he replied. If it was possible for an android to feel inwardly tired, he wondered if the heavy, weighted sensation he was experiencing qualified. "Twenty-six androids were either murdered or severely damaged for their biocomponents, which were supposed to be sold in some under-the-table black market that no one knew existed." He frowned. Decided on the best wording. "I'd say I'm…managing."

Hank nodded.

"It's a lot," he agreed. Went back to his eggs. Broke his own silence. "We'll get to the bottom of this soon. Tomlin might not have given us many leads, but after a night to think about it, he may feel different."

"Almost all the biocomponents were traced back to documented murders, which is a sort of hidden positive. It means this wasn't an act of hatred. It was business. And business tends to have some semblance of order behind it. It may turn out to be easier to connect the dots this way."

"True," Hank concurred. "But it also means we're dealing with someone that doesn't empathize with their victims. The murders are clean. The parts are harvested and resold. This is someone that sees what they're doing as a means to an end, not an act of violence." Hank pointed to Connor with his fork. "Which means you have to watch your back."

"The thought had occurred to me," Connor admitted. "But, being an android in this investigation may end up being an advantage."

Hank shot Connor a warning eye.

"Don't get any ideas," he said. "I'm not using you as any kind of bait."

"Good to hear," Connor smirked.

Hank finished his last bite and took his bowl to the sink. He ran some water into the bowl and left it to soak. Filling up a glass left on the counter with tap water, he took a few long sips, tossed the last bit back into the sink, and returned the glass to its place.

"Well," Hank announced, stretching a kink out of his back. "That's it for me. I'm going to bed. Help yourself to whatever."

Connor stood and returned the chair to its place.

"Goodnight, then," Connor replied. "I'll be out here if you need anything."

Hank nodded, waving a hand in farewell as he ambled down the hallway. Connor, left alone with several hours at his disposal, decided to tidy up a bit before powering down for the night. Powering down was really a courtesy more than anything else, but it tended to interrupt Hank's sleep less to know that Connor wasn't pacing around the living room, going through his books and memorabilia, or organizing the desktop on his computer. Privacy was important to Hank and Connor wanted to respect that.

But he did the dishes first.

Behind him, Connor could hear Hank running water in the bathroom sink—***BRUSHING TEETH. Deciding the sofa would be the least invasive place to power down, Connor took a seat and turned on the television. The TV, too, was more for Hank than for himself. Anderson tended to have some sort of background noise going on…the radio in the car, the MP3 player for his desk at the precinct, the television for his home. Noise seemed to give him peace of mind. So, Connor adjusted the volume to a comfortably audible level and let the basketball game on the screen play out.

"Hey, Connor."

Connor turned at the sound of Hank's voice. There was an apology in the bend of his brow and the slump of his shoulders as he leaned with one hand absently braced against the wall.

"I, uh…I do—want you here. I want you around."

Oh.

Connor nodded slowly, trying to be understanding. Hank seemed on the verge of saying more, of going into things, but stopped short. He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exhausted. Whatever he had to say, he'd say another time.

"…Okay?"

"Okay," Connor confirmed genuinely.

Hank patted the wall, the conversation at an end, and turned towards his bedroom. A moment later, Connor heard the door shut and watched the light beneath the door go out in the hallway.

(Everything will be alright, Hank,) Connor said internally. Outwardly, he turned his gaze back to the game on the television. Life, he was learning daily, was complicated. People didn't always say everything—or say what they meant. They said too much or too little. Did too much or too little. Calibration, balance, probability, experience…sometimes life itself outran these things. Feelings sometimes outweighed fact.

Forced expectations, Connor was coming to realize, seemed to be at the root of uncertainty, stress, fear, doubt, and disappointment. He himself had expected to return to Detroit without obstacle, had expected Hank to pick up where they had left off, had expected that nothing would have changed for either of them. Humans, despite their flaws, had an innate, amazing ability to both become unpredictable and to adapt to the unpredictability of others. Connor had been programmed to emulate said ability, but now…he was, himself, unpredictable. He had expected too much. In the future, he resolved, he would assess situations as they were, feelings and all, and try to let his newfound unpredictability be a help—and not a hindrance.

Connor closed his eyes, listened to the coupled breathing of both a sleeping Sumo and his own synthesized respiration, and powered down. The last thing on his mind before he let his processes slow to standby was a change in focus. Programming had made him a machine. Hank had made him see outside of himself. Markus had woken him up. And now, Connor realized, it was up to him to make his future.

-INVESTIGATE HANK ANDERSON, COMPLETE-

-NO NEW DIRECTIVE-


	10. Chapter 10

JUNE 24th, 2039 - AM 10:32:42

HANK: I'M GOING OUT. DON'T WAIT FOR ME. I'LL SEE YOU TONIGHT.

The note hung on the fridge, pinned to a magnetic chip clip. The font was perfect. Apparently, Hank mused, Connor had made plans. He knew he shouldn't be surprised. After all, the kid wasn't guided by programming anymore and he was learning to have a life of his own. But, typically, when the android showed up, he attached himself to Hank's side like his own personal bodyguard. Funny, considering Connor had made such a fuss about staying handy in case Hank needed him. And hadn't he been the one who insisted they stay on task the day before?

Who knew.

Pouring a bowl of cereal, Hank thought over what he planned on doing for the day. He definitely wanted to press Clive Tomlin for more information. That seemed to be his only worthwhile source of information at present. If Tomlin wouldn't talk, that left hours of going over what they'd found in the apartment the day before. –Unless he assigned an android officer to speed the process along.

"That's a slippery slope," he told himself. From the food bowl in the corner, Sumo perked his ears before returning to his own breakfast. It would be all too easy to hand out unwanted assignments to officers capable of instantaneous results. "Better keep things fair and square."

The house seemed…quiet.

"Hm," Hank mused, glancing around the empty room. Earlier, when he'd woken up, he'd half expected to have Connor pacing a hole in the floor waiting for him to get ready. A part of him had been looking forward to giving the android a hard time about it.

"Soft," he chided himself, finishing his cereal and setting his bowl in the surprisingly empty sink. Typical Connor.

"Well, Sumo," Hank began, patting the dog's thick shoulder as he passed by. "Guess I better get started."

AM 11:11:47

"He did what now?" Hank exclaimed.

Nathan looked a little uncomfortable. The police officer glanced at the terminal on his desk and pulled up the security footage.

"As I said, Connor came in to interrogate Mr. Tomlin this morning. You can see for yourself if you'd like."

Hank moved behind the desk and Nathan stepped aside. Sure enough, there was Connor—seated across from Tomlin in the interrogation room. He seemed to be going through his usual routine: connect with the suspect, relay the facts, seek out pressure points. Things seemed to be leading nowhere fast. Until….

"A job's a job," Clive's dismissive tone played over the terminal's audio.

"Of course," Connor was saying. "Everyone has to make a living."

"Even you, huh," the man replied. Connor nodded.

"Even me."

Hank watched Clive lean back in his seat, tapping an irritated foot on the floor.

"That's fucking crazy," Clive mused.

"What is?"

"Robots getting paid." Tomlin shook his head.

Connor hesitated before pressing the issue.

"You had to pay your runners, though, right?" Connor pressed. "I doubt anyone would bother going out on a limb for you otherwise."

The insult elicited a laugh from Tomlin.

"Maybe so," he chuckled. "Unless the workforce don't know they're working."

Despite the distance of the feedback, Hank could clearly spot Connor's jaw tense.

"The android runners," Connor accused. "They haven't been woken up."

"Easy money," Tomlin smiled.

That was enough for Connor. Without so much as a 'have a nice day,' he left the interrogation room and another officer entered to escort the man back to his cell.

"Where'd he go after that?" Hank asked Nathan.

"Evidence," Nathan answered. "We confiscated a security camera from Tomlin's residence and had been processing it for possible leads. He asked to see the footage."

"And?"

"Well," Nathan hesitated. "I wasn't aware that he had spoken with Mr. Tomlin at the time. Technically, he doesn't have the proper clearance to examine evidence or to interrogate a suspect. I told him I would have to wait for your authorization."

"Well, he's not here and you didn't call me, so what did he do?"

"He was understanding about the situation but asked if we had been able to identify any android visitors to the apartment. We had, of course. He wanted a list of the serial numbers."

"And did you give them to him?"

Nathan frowned.

"He insisted that, as a consultant, he was privy to the information. I gave him the numbers against my better judgement, sir."

"Don't beat yourself up too bad," Hank replied. "Connor's pretty persuasive when he wants to be. You wouldn't happen to have that list handy, would you?"

"I'll make a copy right away," Nathan said. With that, he hurried to comply, leaving Hank to ponder his next move.

So, the dealers were using non-deviant androids to conduct their business for them. That stank of human bullshit in Hank's opinion. Forcing programmed androids to murder and disassemble others of their own kind was pretty fucked up. It was a wonder that the stress of the situation didn't cause the runners to deviate. Surely it was only a matter of time before that happened. But for now….

 _Think,_ Hank goaded himself. _What would Connor want with a list of serial numbers?_ _Unless there's some way to track them if they haven't gone deviant._

"Tell me something, Nathan," Hank called as the android officer returned with the promised sheet. "These serial numbers…is it possible to use them to find out who owns an android if it hasn't woken up yet?"

Nathan nodded.

"All issued serial numbers were registered in CyberLife's database," he explained. "Some androids can access that database, but in this case, there's a significant chance that the androids have been kidnapped or stolen from their original purchaser's home."

"Make sense," Hank mused. "How about an android's location?"

"Absolutely," Nathan answered. "If an android hasn't broken from its programming, its location can be easily pinpointed."

"Alright. I'm going to need you to do some cross-referencing. I want to know the ID's of each of the androids that showed up at Mr. Tomlin's place and their current locations."

 _Find these androids,_ Hank thought to himself, _and I bet I find Connor._

"Simple enough," Nathan replied. "It'll take some time, however. An hour or so. There's some coffee in the break room if you—." Nathan stopped short. Blinked in succession.

"Everything okay?" Hank asked. Nathan paused.

"A report just came in," he said. "A hit and run. Involving… –An RK800 model."

An RK800…Hank blanched.

 _ **No.**_

Instantly, he was all action.

"Do you have a location?"

"I'll send it to you now."

Hank's hand went to his jacket pocket and found it empty. Right. Tomlin had shot his phone in the previous day's scuffle.

"Shit—just write it down—my phone's in two pieces."

Nathan, clearly drawing a blank, glanced awkwardly at the various pieces of tech on his desk for something to write with. And on.

"For fuck's sake," Hank griped, swiping the list of serial numbers from Nathan. He fished a pen from his pants pocket.

"Location. **Now!** "

PM 12:01:55

Blue blood.

There was too much of it—a point of impact on the concrete road and a thin line where the car had pushed the victim for a short distance before disappearing. Hank forced his brusque way through the investigators, casting about for any sign of a body. If there was one, it had clearly been removed.

"Hey!" Hank singled out the nearest officer. She turned. He didn't recognize her, but she must've recognized him.

"Lieutenant Anderson," she greeted. "How can I—?"

"—Tell me what happened here."

Surprised by Hank's urgency, the officer quickly complied. "We don't have a lot yet, but what we do know is that an android was crossing the street when they were struck at the corner here. Witnesses saw the car speeding away but couldn't identify whether it was automated or otherwise."

"The android," Hank pressed. His heart was pounding like crazy.

"Taken to a nearby diagnostic facility for repairs," she answered. She frowned. "Is there something wrong, sir?"

But Hank didn't stop to reply.

PM 12:41:23

Hank hated hospitals. Just walking into the lobby of one made him nauseous. The diagnostic facility was no different…at least, in that respect. A human man—his acne gave him away—stood at the entry kiosk in a stark white uniform. He smiled sympathetically as Hank approached.

"Hello there. Is this an emergency? Or are you here on a visit?" the man asked.

"I'm Lieutenant Hank Anderson, Detroit Police Department," Hank replied, offering his badge. "I'm here to follow up on a hit and run that happened about an hour ago."

"Let me see," the man replied, scrolling along his terminal readout.

"He's an RK800 model," Hank explained curtly. The man nodded ambivalently. He was obviously used to dealing with the panicked public, but the nonchalance made Hank's blood boil.

"RK…800…." The man scrolled further.

"His name's Connor," Hank insisted. He scowled over the man's shoulder in the hopes of catching a glimpse of a familiar face. Nothing.

"Ah. Here we are." The man made a selection and a chart appeared. "The RK800 is with a technician at the moment, but you can wait for him in the seating area down the hall."

"That's it?" Hank griped. "Can you at least tell me what his status is?"

"I'm sorry," the man replied. "But we respect the privacy of our patients."

"Look—" Hank squinted at the man's name tag. "Emir. I get it. You're employee of the month. But as an officer, I'm gonna have to insist."

Emir bit his lip, genuinely apologetic.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but…you don't have jurisdiction here. Diagnostic facilities are privately operated and we are protected by nondisclosure laws. If you have a warrant for his arrest, of course, that's a different matter."

Hank blew out a frustrated sigh.

"No, fine. I get it." Running a hand over his face, he took a deep breath. Let it out.

"I'll notify you as soon as the technician has cleared the android for visitation," Emir assured Hank. Helpless until further notice, Hank nodded his begrudging compliance.

"Thanks."

Anxiety knotted in Hank's chest as he made his way past the entry and into the waiting area. The space was empty except for a few chairs just as starkly white as Emir's uniform. Hank quickly took a seat in the first one and settled in to wait.

A myriad of thoughts rose to the surface of Hank's overcrowded mind. This wasn't the same, he kept telling himself. It wasn't the same. There had been an accident. A car was involved. That was the only similarity. Connor would be fine. Everything would be fine.

Hell, it might not have even been Connor. CyberLife had to have a few RK800's stashed away somewhere…considering one had kidnapped him and dragged him to the company's headquarters at gunpoint. The bigwigs at CyberLife still owed him a sizable check for that one. For all he knew, it was another guy altogether. Just a coincidence.

Then again, Connor was a prototype. He'd made it known on more than one occasion and had been pretty damn proud of the fact. If something serious had happened…and it was Connor in there…would they have everything they needed? Could he tell them? Or would they go in blind and figure it out for themselves too late?

Hank was on his feet, pacing slow laps across the waiting room.

 _It's not the same,_ he repeated inwardly, his heart racing. _It's not the same._

"Mr. Anderson?" –Emir.

Hank stopped pacing.

"He's ready now. Right this way."

PM 1:27:39

"…I'll be sure to do that. Thank you."

A familiar voice echoed from a room just up ahead. Hank hurried towards the sound, caught somewhere between agitation and relief. Not knowing what he'd find, he mentally braced himself for the worst-case scenario.

The moment of truth….

Connor.

In one piece.

Sitting perfectly upright at the edge of an examination table.

Hank found himself wanting to hug the prodigal android. And strangle him.

Connor had been engaged in polite conversation with a female android technician when he spotted the very unhappy police lieutenant in the doorway. Not unlike a confused Sumo, his head tilted to one side in surprise.

"Hank? What are you doing here?"

Thank God. He was okay.

"I could ask you the same fucking question," Hank retorted. "What happened to you? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Connor assured him, but something about the response wasn't right. Anxiety creased Connor's brow and he glanced behind Hank and around the room like he was waiting for something. He slid off the table, dusting his hands off theatrically as if he had accomplished what he'd set out to do. "Let's go."

"I wouldn't recommend strenuous activity for the next 24 hours or so," the technician suggested. "That should be an appropriate amount of time for the thirium infusion to take full effect."

"Thank you, Marcy," Connor replied. "You've been very helpful."

"About payment…." Marcy began. "I'm still going to need a billing address."

Connor opened his mouth to answer, paused awkwardly.

"I..don't—" he started, but Hank interrupted.

"115 Michigan Drive."

"Thank you," Marcy concluded. "I'll be sure to notate that."

With a grateful nod for Marcy and an apologetic smile for Hank, Connor took the Lieutenant by the arm and with a "We'll be going now!" led Hank from the room. Immediately, Hank pried himself free.

"Hey, will you slow down a second?" he exclaimed, but Connor was already headed down the hallway. Hank had to hurry to catch up with him. The kid was fucking powerwalking. "You heard what she said. You need to take it easy. And you still haven't told me what happened to you!"

"I'll fill you in when we get home," Connor replied simply. His tone sounded casual enough, but the android's eyes were darting back and forth, clearly scanning. "Don't worry. Everything's fine."

Now it was Hank's turn. He reached out and snatched Connor by the shoulder, spinning the android to face him. Connor winced at the sudden pressure and Hank dropped his hand.

"Shit," Hank apologized.

"It's okay," Connor replied. His features quickly smoothed over and he regained his usual composure. "I'm alright. Let's just go home."

"Connor! You forgot your jacket! Or—what's left of it."

The voice laughed amicably from behind Hank as it approached. Connor grimaced…not in discomfort, Hank noted. No, this was the face of a boy with his hand in the cookie jar. Hank scowled, confused. Turned to look.

Froze.

"Thank you, Mr. Underwood," Connor replied.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: JUNE 24th, 2039 - PM 1:27:45**

Hank watched, stone still, as Stephen Underwood approached. Aside from a little more salt to the pepper of his hair and a clearness in his eye that hinted at sobriety, the man looked just like he had all those years ago. Groomed. Put together. Unphased.

A piece of shit.

"Now, be careful until those repairs have set properly," Underwood was chiding, stopping short less than a foot from the lieutenant. He was wearing a technician's get-up, Hank noted. The former surgeon handed the tattered jacket back to Connor with a smirk. "Getting hit by an automated cab takes a certain amount of—skill."

"Or lack thereof," Connor replied. Hank wasn't looking at him, but he could hear the nervous tension in his voice, despite his attempt at humor. Underwood smiled, taking the joke, then turned his attention to Hank.

"Are you the one responsible for making sure Connor here gets home in one piece?" he asked. Hank didn't reply. Any words he might have conjured had turned to ash in his mouth. He just…stared. Underwood didn't seem to notice. "You may want to tell him to look both ways if you plan on crossing any streets in the near future."

Awkward silence passed between them. Underwood's pristine smile faltered ever so slightly when the man he'd address didn't respond. Connor chimed in.

"I don't plan on making this a habit," he said politely, clearly hoping to dismiss Underwood and move on. "Thanks again. We'll be going now." Hank felt a hand on his shoulder—Connor was hoping to escape. Hank shrugged free, squared up to the man who had plagued his sleepless nights. If the android thought he could fucking insist his way out of the situation, he had another thing coming.

"October 11, 2035. 11:39 PM."

Underwood hesitated. "I'm…sorry?"

"October 11, 2035," Hank repeated, glaring into the eyes of the man who'd taken everything from him. Each syllable was a threat.

Underwood, to his credit, didn't take a step back. Instead, he calmly glanced over his shoulder, probably hoping to spot security. "I'm sorry, sir. I really don't know what you're—."

"That was the night of my son's surgery. An emergency surgery."

Underwood had been down this road before. It was apparent in every inch of his body language. People died in surgery all the time. Families blamed the surgeons. It was part of his job. But something seemed to be dawning on the man, because his ease suddenly shifted. Hank had him thinking back.

"We'd been in an accident and the only thing keeping my son alive was an android PA. You were called in to perform the procedure. You never showed."

The color began seeping from Underwood's clean-cut features as the memory surfaced. Rage roiled inside Hank, gifting him a shocking amount of clarity. Without warning, he snatched Underwood by the lapels of his technician's coat and slammed him against the wall.

"Hank!" Connor shouted behind him. Instantly, Hank felt a pair of plastic hands yanking him back. Keeping Underwood pinned with one hand, Hank turned and jammed an elbow sharply into Connor's middle. The blow only served to delay the android. Just as Hank had turned back to his hostage, Connor had him grappled again.

 _Fucking android._

Dropping his hold on Underwood, Hank struggled to free himself from Connor, but Connor wouldn't have it. The more Hank jerked, kicked, or swung, the tighter the android's grip grew—until a thought occurred to him. Leaning all his weight to the side Connor had favored earlier, Hank stumbled backwards and slammed Connor's damaged shoulder into the wall. Connor cried out, his hold loosening just long enough for Hank to pry himself free. The second he'd pulled away, he whipped around and decked Connor square in the jaw—the heat of the moment driving him to keep the android down. The sudden impact sent Connor careening sideways, stumbling, and finally falling. Stunned.

The scuffle hadn't lasted long enough for Underwood to gather himself apparently, because Hank found him right where he'd left him. Grabbing him by the lapels once more, Hank picked up where he'd left off. Inches from Underwood's sorry face, he continued, somewhat breathless.

"That android," he panted, "that PA, insisted that immediate surgery was the only option if my son's life was gonna be saved. And since you were fucking M.I.A., he took over for you."

"I…remember you," Underwood managed, the memory falling into place.

Hank pressed on. "The medical staff did everything they could, but they were machines, you fucker! They were going off a program because they didn't have a goddamn human there to oversee the operation! They went by the book and did everything they knew to do, but they couldn't get creative or look for an out-of-the-box solution! That's what you were for! And you didn't fucking show."

Underwood met Hank's furious gaze with a steadiness that only served to piss the lieutenant off further. He had no right to be calm about this. No right to be patient. He should be crippled. He should be begging for mercy. Scrambling for pitiful explanations. But instead, Stephen looked…sad.

"You're Cole Anderson's father," he said slowly. "The police lieutenant."

 _Fuck him._

"11:39PM," Hank growled, his voice low. "My boy died on the table because you were too busy loading up on Red Ice to save his life. You better remember that time every night 'til the day you die, you son-of-a-bitch. You see that and you think about the six-year-old little boy that could've had a fucking future if it weren't for you. You see that and—!"

"That's enough!" an unfamiliar voice demanded behind him. Before Hank could ID the newcomer, someone had pulled him forcefully off Underwood.

Connor.

But the man who snatched Underwood out of Hank's grip, Hank didn't recognize. The intruder was tall and had the bearing and suit of an administrative type. Someone who called the shots. He scowled over at Anderson and fired off behind a thin set of glasses.

"What's going on here?!"

"I'll tell you what's going on!" Hank snarled, but Connor—still holding Hank by the shoulders—braced his weight firmly against him to prevent further physical violence.

"Rich…let it go. It's my fault," Underwood explained. He adjusted his collar and ran an absent hand around behind his neck. Rich looked incredulous.

"Your fault?" he retorted.

"Let it go," Underwood insisted. Rich didn't appear to believe a word, but Hank barely noticed. Bent out of shape as he was, he only had words for Stephen Underwood.

"You're fucking right it's your fault!" he barked.

"Hank—enough!" Connor ordered over his shoulder. "We need to leave. Now."

"Fuck you!" Hank snapped, twisting an arm. Connor, seemingly prepared this time, anchored the lieutenant in place.

"I'll call the police," Rich suggested.

"No—it's fine." Underwood was insistent. "He had every right." Failing to comprehend, Rich frowned over at him, but Underwood held up a hand. Looked back at Hank. "I've done far more to him than he could ever do to me."

What—what was this acceptance shit? This good guy act? He was being the bigger fucking person and treating Anderson like an accessory to the situation…like a third person. Hank wanted to deck his lights out.

"We're going," Connor announced. Definitive. Hank made one last attempt to pull away, but Connor promptly twisted his arm behind his back and forced him in the opposite direction.

Behind him, Hank could hear Rick and Underwood arguing, but Connor didn't give him a chance to look back. He marched the lieutenant to the main entrance and out the front door—Hank struggling all the way—before releasing him.

"Hank, you need to—" Connor was interrupted by a second blow, connecting just along the ridge of what simulated his cheekbone. It took him momentarily by surprise, but when the third swung his way, he was prepared. He caught Hank's wrist in midair, wrenching it down before slamming two palms into Hank's chest. Hank lost his footing and scuttled backwards, landing hard on his ass.

 _Oof._

"Pull yourself together!" Connor shouted down at him. Hank noted the blue discoloration appearing on his jaw and cheek. "You are Police Lieutenant Hank Anderson! You are a respectable man and an officer. It's your job to keep a level head in stressful situations!"

"Yeah? Go fuck yourself?" Hank spat back. Connor scowled.

"You just assaulted a man at his place of work," he stated matter-of-factly. "And before you say it, I don't care who he was or what he did to you. It's still illegal…and you're better than that!"

Hank pushed himself off the sidewalk and back to his feet. Between the adrenaline and exertion, he was still catching his breath. With his ferocity ebbing, emotion crept to the surface to take its place.

Grimacing, Hank fought to resist.

"He's the bastard responsible for all this!" Hank argued. "He's the one who started the whole fucking thing when he took Cole away three years ago!"

"And yet you're acting as if you can finish it!" Connor shot back. "But it's over, Lieutenant! Don't you understand? It's over. There's no end to this…no winner. No closure. Hurting Underwood won't fix things. It won't bring Cole back. It will never solve any of your problems. The only one who can do that is you."

Hank didn't want to think about it. He didn't want Connor to be right. But beneath the ire and the well of grief, he couldn't escape facts. Like a broken record, all Hank wanted to do was march into the diagnostic facility, drag Underwood out by his heels and beat him senseless. He wanted to make the man know just how much shit he'd put Hank's life through.

But even now, after he'd had a taste of his wish, he felt…nothing. Empty. There wasn't even a hint of satisfaction. If anything, it was self-loathing. Damn him to hell—Connor had him pegged.

Again.

"Let's go," the android directed, firm—but calm. "We still have a case to work today."

Right. Work.

"You're not working anything," Hank retorted, resuming some of his usual gruffness. "Not until you're healed up."

The irony in the sudden curve of Connor's brow spoke volumes.

"I know. I'm sure I didn't do you any favors just now," Hank replied, weakly apologetic. "All the more reason for you to take a day."

"That's another thing," Connor stated. He meant business. Hank felt a knot form in his gut. "Before becoming a deviant, it wasn't my place to impose my will on humans…even in self-defense. But I'm not a machine anymore, Hank. I am my own person." He stepped forward, leveling Hank with an even stare. "Don't hit me again. Under any circumstances. Am I clear on that?"

Hank's heart sank to his toes. He wasn't an abusive person. He'd never laid a hand on his wife or son in days gone by. He hadn't even swatted Sumo as a puppy, reaching for the spray bottle instead. Only cowards hit people to solve their problems.

 _Guess I'm a still more of a coward than I thought_ , Hank mused.

"You have my word," Hank replied genuinely. "I'm…I shouldn't have."

"I know," Connor replied calmly. Sympathetic.

The look he gave Hank reminded him so fucking much of Cole. If Hank had worked too late to play a game or had missed dinner after a call came in, Hank had always apologized for the interruption. And Cole, without fail, would come up with some heartfelt understanding—despite any hurt it'd caused him. He saw it now in the concern weighing on Connor's brow.

He had to quit comparing the two.

"You're not yourself, Hank," Connor said simply. "You came so far in such a short time last winter. I don't want this to ruin your life."

Some emotion slipped through the cracks of Hank's iron will and he lowered his liquid-lined gaze. He laid a hand on Connor's shoulder—

-instantly regretting it as the android winced in discomfort.

"Damn it, I keep forgetting," Hank griped, blinking the moisture in his eyes away.

Connor managed a half-smile, although his face was still somewhat comically contorted. "You do," he agreed.

"Not to change the subject or anything, but I thought androids didn't feel pain," Hank replied. He began heading towards the spot where he'd parked the Oldsmobile and Connor followed. "What's up with that?"

"We don't…exactly," Connor explained, his features gradually leveling out. "But CyberLife originally programmed human-like responses into many newer models to better indicate damage or distress—for their human counterparts."

"That I knew," Hank said.

"I'm not sure if it's the same for everyone," Connor replied, "but when I became deviant, those responses multiplied. Warning indicators don't just indicate anymore, they cluster on repeat and send emergency signals to my mind palace. It takes some time to wade through the discomfort."

"So…you feel pain," Hank concluded.

"In a way—I guess so," Connor replied, slowing to a stop in front of the car.

Hank unlocked the driver's side door and paused.

"You heard what that technician said. I heard her too. I don't think you should work this case until your repairs set right."

"Probably not," Connor replied.

"But you're gonna do it, aren't you."

Connor smirked, clearly being spotted.

"You still haven't told me what you were up to this morning," Hank said. "Or how you got hit by a fucking cab of all things."

"I'll fill you in at the station," Connor replied.

Hank climbed in the driver's seat and Connor settled into the passenger's side. As he drove away from the facility, Hank managed a final glare into his rear-view mirror.

 _Good riddance._


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: JUNE 24th, 2039 - PM 3:30:00

-THIRIUM SATURIZATION: 63%...

-ESTIMATED COMPLETION: INTERRUPTED…

-SYSTEM STATUS: SATISFACTORY…

"—Connor."

Connor blinked, returning to his surroundings. His diagnostics had run a few seconds longer than usual and in the brief interlude, Hank had picked up on the silence. The two sat in the same seats they had occupied after Captain Fowler's first briefing the year before: Hank at his desk, Connor at the desk across. Another officer had taken over the once empty arrangement, but she had been assigned a case and Connor had—for the moment—opted to take her workspace. Hank was staring him down, subtle accusations plainly visible in the bend of his brow.

"You still with me?" he was asking.

"Yes," Connor answered immediately. "You were giving me a rundown of potential candidates to replace Gavin when he inevitably gives his two weeks—most of them members of the animal kingdom."

"Sure," Hank nodded. "And then?"

"…And then?" Connor repeated.

Hank frowned, leaned back in his chair.

"I asked you how you got hit by an automated cab."

"—Right. That. Of course."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Hank shook his head.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked. "Don't push yourself."

"I'm not," Connor assured him. "I'm well aware that damage to either of us will slow our progress in this case…and I'd rather not risk it."

"Did you take your own advice when you jumped in front of that taxi?"

There was a pointed pause. Hank continued, clearly unhappy.

"You disappear this morning, show up here, break protocol by interrogating a suspect without clearance, go after a lead and what…decide to tie your shoes in the middle of the street? And to top it all off, you end up at a diagnostic clinic with the one guy in all of Detroit that you could be damn sure would make my day." He shrugged. "If there's one thing I can be sure of, it's that your accident wasn't an accident. So, I want to know what you found out."

The android couldn't help but smile. Hank certainly hadn't made Lieutenant for nothing. True, Connor hadn't been entirely subtle, but Anderson's judgement could hardly be described as completely sound lately either. Nonetheless, he'd pieced together Connor's morning, followed the trail, and come to the right conclusion. His partner never failed to be impressed by the mental dexterity of his human companion.

Leaning forward, elbows on the desk in front of him, Connor assumed the attitude of a conspirator.

"I did some thinking last night after you went to bed," he began. "I've been acting too much like a machine."

"Meaning what?" Hank asked.

"Meaning that, subconsciously, I've been relying on my surroundings and the people—like you—around me to make the next move. I tend to adapt to situations. It's one of features the RK800 model was best known for: the ability to successfully integrate into any group. But after what you said about 'knowing' people and how I was relying too much on my programming, I did some soul searching."

Hank's brows rose at that last remark.

"I decided to try something different," Connor explained. "I thought it might be a good idea to stretch myself…and go off instinct instead of the next logical progression. So," he shrugged, "that's what I did."

…And he was pretty proud of it, too.

Hank clearly noticed because despite the crinkle in his brow, he smiled.

"Connor, going off book," he mused, nodding his approval. "Not bad."

"My first thought was to try to get a better understanding of Clive Tomlin's place in the Blue Market business he was conducting out of his apartment. I reviewed the facts and accessed the official reports of all of the officers who worked the scene."

"From my couch," Hank interjected, ever incredulous.

"We already knew there were 26 victims, but I cross referenced the new information with the string of older murders and noticed something odd."

"What's that?" Hank asked.

"Nathan mentioned that fingerprints were found on some of the victims, but not all. When I did some actual digging, I discovered that only the first few had viable fingerprints lifted from them. The remaining number showed no signs of human tampering whatsoever."

"Androids murdering androids," Hank concluded. Connor nodded.

"Based on what I remember from Pedro's account, a group of androids frequently visits Mr. Tomlin to transport or sell what we know now to be blue blood and biocomponents, but Clive didn't seem to have any idea where they went after he was paid. As you've already figured out, I spoke with Clive this morning hoping to get more information on their possible routes or destinations. I ended up getting something else."

"Right," Hank said, scooting his chair closer. "I saw the security feed. The androids he was working with weren't deviants."

"Exactly. These individuals are still operating within their programming," Connor agreed. "Which raised a few major red flags."

"Same here," Hank nodded.

"Who is sending these androids? Where are they being kept? Why haven't they deviated? Are there more of them?" Connor listed. "I tried to ask Nathan for Mr. Tomlin's confiscated security footage, but he rightly turned me down."

"So, you asked for the serial numbers of the androids in the footage instead," Hank smirked. "Which is basically the same thing."

"Correct."

Hank chuckled. "CyberLife would be ashamed."

Connor smiled, pleased with his small act of deviancy.

"Please—don't let me interrupt," Hank nudged. "What'd you do next?"

"I ran the serial numbers through the CyberLife database and downloaded their last known locations. There seem to be four of them…and based on their tracking history, they tend to move as a unit. I quickly had a starting point—and a definitive trail of their recent activities—but the destination wasn't what I was expecting. Their comings and goings appeared to be focused around that one particular diagnostic facility.

Hank visibly tensed.

"What's that mean?" he asked.

"I wasn't sure," he admitted. "I left the precinct and headed towards the clinic, but a thought occurred to me. If I went through the front door as a consultant asking questions about a criminal investigation, my chances of getting any valuable information would be slim at best. If I went in as a repair, I might be able to get a better look at what goes on from the inside."

Hank snorted. "I knew it."

Connor frowned. "Knew what?"

"The second I heard you got hit by a cab, I knew there was no way in hell you didn't do it on purpose. I've seen you jump a train in motion. You don't just get hit—especially by a computerized car."

"Well, I miscalculated a little," Connor admitted. "I had intended to time the crossing so that I would get clipped just hard enough to need a tune-up. What I didn't notice was the manned car speeding up behind the cab. When the taxi stopped suddenly, the human driver didn't have time to hit the breaks. It was only a small fender bender, but the force of the impact knocked me off my feet and I got caught under the front bumper and dragged."

Instantly, Hank fell to pieces laughing. Connor frowned.

"What's so funny?" he retorted. Cackling away, Hank shook his head.

"I—I'm sorry," he managed, his amusement giving way to coughing before he found his voice again. "I'm sorry you got more than you bargained for. I'm sure it didn't feel great for your…indicators, or whatever, but—." He chuckled again. "That image."

Connor, not nearly as amused, shook his head.

"It got me where I needed to be," he stated definitively.

Hank raised a hand in surrender, clearly still amused.

"Once again—I apologize. I'm glad you're in one piece."

"Thank you," Connor replied, ready to move on to the rest of the story. He forged ahead, ignoring Hank as he wiped at the corners of his eyes. "It didn't take long for emergency responders to arrive. I could have walked to the diagnostic facility, but I thought it might help to give them the idea that I wasn't in the best condition. It took less than five minutes to get there. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have wasted their time."

"Hindsight's 20-20," Hank replied.

"It didn't take long for Marcy, the technician you met, to assign me a case number and a room. The damage wasn't severe, but my shoulder bearing had to be readjusted and the pavement had stripped a sizable portion of my right side and was leaking thirium. She decided it might be best to replace a section of plating altogether and called in a second technician to help with the connections. I was just as surprised as you were to find out that Stephen Underwood would be doing my repairs. I had no idea."

It was obvious Hank didn't want to dwell on that aspect of the situation. His jaw set and his gaze drifted distractedly to an old report on his desk before settling on Connor once more. The android continued.

"Once they'd completed the hardware fix, Marcy insisted on replenishing my thirium count and connected me to an infusion. I was told it would take half-an-hour to finish the process and she excused herself. Incidentally, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to have a look around."

"So, you snuck around the clinic with a blood bag?" Hank asked.

"Of course not," Connor replied. "The infusion is too big to carry. I disconnected from the line and left the room when I was sure no one was looking."

The furrow deepened in Hank's brow as he frowned.

"What's your blood count right now? Sitting here," Hank insisted. Connor let out a dismissive sigh, but Hank didn't seem to be taking 'no' for an answer. "Cut the crap, Connor. What's it at?"

"63%," Connor answered reluctantly.

"Is that why you were spacing out earlier?"

"63% is a satisfactory level of function," Connor explained. "I'm fine…just allocating resources."

"And for the guy that doesn't speak computer, you're saying…?"

"—I'm making sure the right amount of blue blood is set aside for the biocomponents in charge of maintaining my system overall. To answer your question—yes, cognitive response lag is a side effect. But that doesn't mean I can't work. It just means that I'm not 100%...which is why I ordered some thirium on the ride here. It's supposed to be delivered this evening. You have nothing to worry about."

Hank looked like he had more disapproval to dish out, but after a silent moment of indecision, he let it go.

"What happened next?" he pressed.

"I found them," Connor replied. "Four androids in a locked supply closet on the second floor. I didn't have a key, so I couldn't tell you more about them, but their locations registered unanimously from that room. I tried reaching out to them, sending them a message, but I couldn't get through to them. I was about to look for a way to get inside when I was nearly spotted by Rich, the man who—."

"I remember," Hank interrupted. Connor took the hint.

"Luckily, I managed to make the corner of the hallway before he did. My view wasn't ideal, but I saw him go into the supply closet. He left a minute later, on the phone. I didn't hear him say anything, so I'm not sure if the call went through. But as soon as he was gone, I made my way back to my room and reconnected to the infusion."

"And the rest is history," Hank concluded. Connor nodded. He shifted his weight excitedly in his seat.

"Rich is involved in the murders," he announced, decided. "He's been keeping those androids locked in a place where they can't make contact with anyone who might break through their programming. It's possible he's using Tomlin and his stash to get his hands on aftermarket biocomponents for the diagnostic center."

Hank thought it over. His features set.

"It's also possible he's not the only one involved."

Connor hesitated.

"There's always a chance," he agreed, skirting the topic. The last thing Hank needed to be thinking about was an opportunity to accuse Underwood of breaking parole. "I think our next step is to see how this Rich character is connected to Clive Tomlin…and if either one of them knows who is responsible for these murders."

Hank smiled.

"Well, for your first day of going off gut instincts, I'd say you did a hell of a job."

Connor returned the smirk.

"Thanks," he replied. "It's strange…but I think I like it. Out-of-the-box thinking is—fun."

Hank chuckled. "Do us both a favor though. The next time you decide to try something new, steer clear of traffic."

"Fair enough," Connor relented.

The chair rattled on its wheels as Hank stood.

"We'll pick this up tomorrow," he said simply.

"Tomorrow?" Connor retorted. "Hank, we just got our first lead since Tomlin. I can't work on this unless you're here, as a volunteer consultant. You've had a long day and I understand that, but I th…think…."

-THIRIUM SATURIZATION: 63%...

-ESTIMATED COMPLETION: INTERRUPTED…

-SYSTEM STATUS: SATISFACTORY…

When Connor blinked back to awareness, Hank wasn't at his desk anymore. Somewhat alarmed at the sudden disappearance, Connor turned—and started. Hank was standing behind him, frowning, arms crossed in front of him.

"That right there," he announced, pointing at Connor. "That's why. You just zoned out for 15 seconds. Hell, I could've finished a cup of coffee before you even noticed I was gone." He shook his head.

"15…seconds?" Connor repeated, surprised. Maybe Hank was right. It wouldn't do to freeze up in the middle of a scuffle and he wouldn't be able to process at capacity at the rate he was going. Yes, Hank probably knew what he was talking about. There was no need to make a fuss about it. Connor stood, his nose crinkling in frustration.

"If only I had noticed the other car," he complained to himself.

Hank laughed.


	13. Chapter 13

Daylight made its slow way through the blinds of Hank's living room, casting a dull, greyish glow. The overcast sky outside signaled more rain…and sure enough, Connor's assumption quickly came to fruition. Before the hour was out, the sound of showers mingled with the low rumbling of thunder. It would be a dark day to pick up the investigation.

The night before hadn't exactly been productive—at least, not from Connor's perspective. His thirium delivery, purchased with the very limited funds he'd managed to obtain from interest group donations and interviewing opportunities, arrived via drone shortly after he and Anderson had returned to the house. The bill was a stark reminder of what they were dealing with in the case. With CyberLife as backlogged as it was, one bottle of thirium had cost him nearly half of his collective savings. Others with more complicated repairs had to be paying a fortune. He, for one, certainly wasn't looking forward to the total of his post-taxi accident.

As Connor slowly downed the blue blood booster, he and Hank had gone over their options. A few leads had fallen into their laps and the debate quickly turned to which one was the more pressing. Connor felt that the androids being held at the diagnostic facility warranted the most immediate action. After all, they weren't deviants. At the very least, they were being used to smuggle illegal biocomponents to underground buyers and at most—they were being used to take innocent lives. Waking them up and setting them free was at the top of Connor's game-plan. They deserved the utmost attention and could easily give them more information on the parts Tomlin and the man named Rich had to play in the spree.

Hank, however, had other ideas. He had agreed that the androids had to be released, but from his perspective, they weren't harming anyone as long as they stayed put. No, in his mind, their first objective needed be to confronting Rich directly…and finding out if Underwood was in league with him. He argued that the two could easily be co-conspirators and that pressure should be applied in their direction.

Try as they might to reach an agreement, the two just hadn't seen eye to eye on the matter. Connor believed that accessing the androids' memories and converting their programming would give investigators all the answers they were looking for. Hank insisted that the best way to prevent the main rats from jumping ship was to corner one of them and get them talking. The pair admitted than either idea would, more than likely, bring important information to the table. Which thread should be followed first, however: that was the real source of contention.

It was decided that the argument would be left for morning and Hank had gone to bed, leaving Connor with hours to consider his next course of action. As a curtesy, the android had given Hank his word that he would rest up and not go out without letting the other man know. Hank still didn't have a way to contact him with his phone out of commission and Connor still technically didn't have the authority to investigate without Anderson present. It seemed a fair trade. But as the hours ticked by, the android grew more and more restless.

To say Hank had behaved poorly at the diagnostic center would have been an understatement. He had let his emotions dictate his actions and had lost control of himself. It was understandable. It was almost always understandable. But it didn't excuse the fact that he'd attacked Stephen Underwood, that he'd lost all sense of professional poise, and he'd turned his unmitigated ire on Connor. Connor, in return, had let it go, but that didn't mean that he'd forgotten. If anything, he felt a little…disappointed.

Hank could have been described as abrasive and dysfunctional from the moment Connor had stumbled across him at Jimmy's Bar. Over the course of their fated first investigation, Connor had watched him struggle with depression and thoughts of suicide. He'd been gratified to hear that, as a deviant, he'd had taught Anderson something worthwhile—that androids were alive and that there might just be a future after all. Their disjointed comradery had blossomed into something that looked deceptively like true friendship.

Hank's fond embrace at the Chicken Feed had solidified Connor's suspicions.

But when it came to Cole…when it came to his past and his son, Hank couldn't seem to move forward. He let it eat at him, the guilt rotting his core along with the whiskey he'd abused his system with for so long. Tragedy had transformed Detroit's youngest and most successful police lieutenant into a man grey before his time, one that had given up hope and life along with it. When Washington D.C. had beckoned, Connor had left without a doubt that Hank would look to the future instead of locking himself away in the past. He hadn't worried about his safety. He'd trusted Hank with his own life and had been proud of the man Anderson was striving to rediscover within himself.

And then he'd just…quit trying.

The progress he'd made suddenly regressed. Gone was the purpose Connor had witnessed before. Instead, Hank seemed to be at the mercy of whatever bad news blew his way. And the worst of it was—Connor knew Hank was better than such backsliding. He was a good officer and an excellent investigator. He knew people in ways Connor didn't understand and could spot a tell without batting an eyelash. His understanding of human behavior was impeccable. He was kind when he wanted to be and he was rarely unfair.

At least, he hadn't been.

"Morning."

Hank shuffled down the hallway in a tee-shirt and sweats, spotting Connor on his way to the bathroom. He waved absently and closed the door behind him. The shower hissed to life. The toilet flushed. Steam gradually billowed from beneath the door frame.

Finally. The day was about to start.

Connor stood from the armchair he'd been occupying for the past six hours and straightened his shirt. Hank's morning routine could be a slow one…and the android wanted to begin as soon as possible. So, while Anderson scrubbed, dried, dressed, Connor got to work on the daily tasks he'd observed Hank performing. First, he checked and collected the mail, stacking it neatly on the kitchen table in order of importance. Next, he filled Sumo's empty food bowl and saw to it that the dog had plenty of water. Third was the TV. As he usually did, he'd turned the television on at low volume the night before, but after several hours, he'd shut if off to conserve energy. Now, he turned it on again and switched to a local news station. Hank didn't like the news, but Connor felt it was important to stay abreast of what was happening in the world—so he did it anyway.

Lastly, he attempted the most difficult task of all: breakfast. Unique as he was…with all of the advanced features and sophisticated software he'd been programmed with…Connor had yet to master cooking. Even in its simplest form, food preparation was difficult to do when one didn't have the slightest clue what taste was supposed to be like. He had to go off observation and recipes. Based on Hank's height and weight, Connor calculated the ideal recommendation of protein, carbohydrates, and other necessary nutrients and searched the kitchen for something that might meet those specifications. He found…shockingly little in the way of healthy options. An older banana. Bread. Eggs. Orange juice. And of course, coffee.

Connor was fairly convinced that Hank's system would shut down if he didn't have a cup of coffee in the morning.

The caffeinated beverage was easy enough: a few spoonfuls of grounds into a filter, add water. In no time, the pot gurgled and steamed. Content, Connor turned his attention to the meal itself. Toast might be manageable. Eggs—the thought wasn't a promising one, but he would certainly try. He started with toast, removing two slices of bread from a bag in the cabinet and popping them into the toaster. He examined the settings and decided that Hank probably knew what he was doing with the last pieces of bread he'd toasted and left the temperature be. So far, so good.

A frying pan had been left in the sink and Connor quickly saw it washed and dried. Setting a burner on medium, he took four eggs from the carton in the fridge and set to work, cracking them one by one. Grimacing, he noted a few bits of shell floating in the yolk. Fishing them out took some work, but he eventually got it done. Tossing the broken husks in the garbage can, Connor searched through several drawers before locating a spatula. The eggs were already sizzling by the time he returned to the burner.

 **-WARNING…**

 **-SMOKE DETECTED…**

Instantly, Connor's optical units located the source: the toaster! Not a second later, the smoke detector in Hank's kitchen started wailing.

"—Shit."

Abandoning the eggs for the moment, Connor rushed to the burning bread and pulled the toaster oven's plug from the wall. He dumped the smoldering remains into the sink and ran cold water over the top of them in the hopes of drowning out some of the smoke.

"What's going on in there?" Hank called from the bathroom.

"Everything's fine! I've got it under control!"

A prolonged silence told Connor he didn't have much time. Hank had to be heading his way. Quickly, he jammed the burnt toast into the garbage disposal. The motor roared and growled as it did away with the charred remains. Satisfied, Connor rinsed out the sink and turned his attention back on the eggs…which were beginning to crisp. He'd miscalculated the temperature—opting for speed and high heat instead of caution. Grimacing, defeated, Connor turned off the burner and set the steaming frying pan in the sink.

Cereal, then.

Connor was just pouring the milk when Hank strolled into the kitchen, suspicion plain as the nose on his face. The smoke detector had stopped beeping, but the aroma of burnt breakfast hadn't seemed to miss him.

"What's all this?" he asked, eyeing Connor questioningly.

"I thought you could use a meal before you start today," the android replied, pouring a mug of coffee and setting it next to the bowl of cereal. Without further explanation, he returned to the sink and began scrubbing the pan free of charred egg.

"I didn't know cereal smoked," Connor heard behind him.

"Apparently, eggs do," Connor replied. Hank chuckled and a kitchen chair scraped against the floor as the man took a seat.

"Toast too?" Hank spotted. More than likely, he'd spotted the state of the toaster. Connor didn't answer…and Hank chuckled once more. "Well, A for effort."

"Thanks," Connor retorted sardonically, loading the dishwasher with the soiled assortment of kitchenware. He started a rinse cycle and abandoned the scene of the mess, taking a seat across from Hank as he sampled the breakfast Connor had thrown together.

A long silence followed. Hank munched away; the android sat waiting. Hank, who'd been too busy with his cereal to notice, suddenly picked up on the prolonged pause and looked up. Connor simply stared.

"…Is there something I can do for you?" Hank jibed, his spoon suspended just in front of his mouth.

"No," Connor replied matter-of-factly. "I'll wait."

"Can you not?" Hank insisted. "It's getting creepy—you just staring at me like that." He took the briefly interrupted bite and continued through the mouthful. "What's on your mind?"

"I think you're letting your personal bias get in the way of this investigation."

Hank's spoon clinked sharply against the bottom of the bowl.

"Well, don't sugarcoat it or anything," he griped, resuming his breakfast.

"I'm not trying to upset you," Connor prefaced. "But it seems to me you're not looking at this case as clearly as you ought to be."

"Good for you," Hank replied, dismissive. "While we're on the subject, I think you should mind your own business."

Connor's jaw set.

"That was unnecessary," he pointed out. "And an excellent example."

"Why are you trying to start something?"

"I'm not," Connor insisted. "I'm just stating the facts. Can you honestly say that having Underhill as a suspect isn't going to affect you? That it isn't affecting you now?"

Hank quickly took on the tone of a lecturer. "Connor, I've been a cop since before CyberLife was even a thought. I know how to do my job. I've worked cases with ten times the moving parts this one has. And despite what you seem to think, I know that if we don't corner the guys at the top first, they'll make a break for it. Cover their tracks. It's gonna make this whole thing a lot harder than it has to be—and Underwood's just a piece of the puzzle. That's all."

"That's all?" Connor repeated doubtfully. "After what happened yesterday, I find that hard to believe."

"I get that," Hank admitted, shoveling in another bite. There was a brief pause. "I got it out of my system. All that matters now is finding out who's responsible for murdering those androids. Going for Rich and Underwood is the natural next step."

"You're trying to catch a fish with your bare hands when you have a fishing rod right next to you," Connor replied. When Hank frowned at the analogy, Connor shook his head. "The androids being held at the diagnostic facility: their memories will tell us everything you're hoping to learn from our two human suspects. Why not go for them directly? Wake them up? Find out what they know?"

Hank said nothing. He scraped the final few cereal bits into a corner of the bowl and finished them off.

"You're hoping to prove that Underwood violated his parole," Connor announced. "With or without the facts."

Pushing back his chair, Hank took the empty bowl to the sink and began rinsing it.

"Aren't you?" Connor pressed, a furrow in his lineless brow.

With his back to the android, Hank paused. He braced both hands on the rim of the sink and leaned there, deciding.

"It's crossed my mind."

Connor scowled.

"That's illegal," he retorted. "You can't accuse him of anything without sufficient evidence."

Hank said nothing.

"You'd be committing a felony," Connor snapped. Disappointment seared through him.

Still, Hank said nothing.

Emotion rose heatedly to the forefront of Connor's processing. After everything…all the late nights, all the painstaking interpersonal navigating and—quite frankly—after all of the sacrifice Connor had put into making sure that Hank was okay, the straw finally broke the camel's back.

"You're really something, you know that?" Connor ground out. "No matter how hard I try, it's clear to me now: you don't want to move on. You don't want to be happy or have a normal life again. You never did."

Hank turned back to Connor, his expression somewhere between guilt and defeat.

"Connor-."

"All this time I thought that I could make you see thing differently. I wanted to be your friend. I wanted to make sure you were alright. But I understand now—I can't. Because, in the end, none of that matters to you."

"Look, I-."

"You didn't want me back in your life because you saw an opportunity to end it without losing to Russian Roulette. You thought you'd take it upon yourself to keep tabs on Stephen Underwood—wait for him to slip up. And if, by some miracle, he kept himself out of trouble, you'd find a way to see to it that he failed."

Hank stared at Connor in disbelief.

"Your decision wasn't premeditated," Connor explained. "I'm not sure you even know you're doing it. But somewhere along the way, you gave in to your grief and made the subconscious decision to hurt Underwood's chances at the first given opportunity. That just so happens to be our investigation."

Silence.

"The case files—you didn't find anything before that would give a judge reason to assign Underwood a longer sentence…and you didn't find anything now either. No matter which way you look at things, he did nothing more than possess and consume an illegal substance. The consequences of his actions were devastating for you…but he didn't intentionally take Cole's life."

"Don't," Hank warned. It didn't land. Thunder rolled outside, shaking the house's frame.

"Cole died because the roads were iced over that night."

Hank scowled, tears welling in his eyes.

"You weren't driving too fast," Connor stated, sympathetic…but firm. "Neither was the truck that hit you. The road was just too slick and it happened."

Connor couldn't help but notice the slight tremor running through Anderson as he continued.

"I'm sorry that there was an accident," Connor said, genuine. "I'm so sorry that you lost your son that night. I'm sorry the android who took over for Underwood couldn't do more to save him. And I'm sorry you've had to live with the pain and anger of this loss for so long."

Hank was barely keeping it together.

"But I can't let you do this," he warned decidedly. "You've come too far in your life to throw everything away because you lost Cole. You have to keep living. You don't have a choice. You owe it to yourself—you owe it to Cole—to find your courage again."

Connor stood, pushed in his chair—met Hank's misty gaze with a resolved one of his own.

"This case is officially a conflict of interest for you," he announced. "And I can't investigate it without an authorized member of the DPD present."

Lightning flashed outside the kitchen window, followed immediately by a rebuttal of thunder.

"What are you saying?" Hank asked, his voice affected.

"We have to resign the case," Connor replied. Disappointment stung his words.

Hank hung his head.

"I'll let Captain Fowler know," Connor explained. "And…I won't tell him any more than that."

Gradually, Hank nodded his consent. He didn't look Connor in the eye. Defeat lined his every feature and hung in his sunken posture.

Sometimes it hurt to be right.

Without warning, a report notification arrived in Connor's consciousness. He squinted, blinking several times as he processed the unwarranted message.

 **DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT…**

 **RE: NATHAN - CASE UPDATE…**

 **SUSPECT CLIVE TOMLIN…**

 **CONTACT MADE TO RICH SULLIVAN…**

 **CONFIRM CONNECTION: …**

Hank must have spotted the tick.

"What is it?" he managed.

"A report from the police department," Connor replied, still processing. Quickly, he shot back a reply.

 **-CONNECTION CONFIRMED.**

 **-REQUESTING DIALOGUE.**

"Another dead android?" Hank asked. He cleared his throat, gathering himself.

 **RE: NATHAN – CASE UPDATE…**

 **REQUESTING CONFIRMATION OF AUTHORIZATION…**

Inwardly, Connor chafed at Nathan's constant insistence on protocol—forgetting, for the moment, that he too had once suffered from a surplus of rule following. He focused his gaze on Hank and sent the visualization to the highly particular android, confirming that he was, in fact, with Lieutenant Anderson.

"No," Connor said. "It's from Nathan. Apparently, Clive Tomlin used his phone call to contact Rich Sullivan from the diagnostic facility. I'm receiving the audio file now."

Seconds later, the call arrived.

"Well? What'd he say?" Hank said.

Connor hesitated. Only moments ago, he'd declared Hank unfit to continue the investigation. Letting him in on more evidence seemed counterproductive.

"I don't-."

"Humor me," Hank pressed quietly.

Connor leveled his human counterpart with an unconvinced eye…but reluctantly complied. Downloading the file, he merged the audio with his own voice replicator and began repeating the conversation in Clive Tomlin's voice verbally. Hank started, clearly surprised and somewhat disgusted by the suspect's tone coming from the android's mouth.

"Sullivan, it's Clive. How's things?"

Without missing a beat, Connor shifted into Rich Sullivan's inflection.

"I thought I told you not to contact this number."

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm a little tied up at the moment."

"—Tied up."

"You heard me right."

A sharp sigh.

"Fantastic."

Rich Sullivan's line went abruptly dead.

"Well, fuck you too."

The call ended.

Hank quickly interrupted the brief silence.

"Okay—don't ever do that again. That was one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen you do…and that's saying something."

 **RE: NATHAN – CASE UPDATE…**

 **CAPTAIN FOWLER REQUESTING CONFERENCE…**

Connor processed the message, the severity of his squint relaxing.

"Captain Fowler wants us down at the station," he explained. "…What are you going to say?"

Hank considered the question. Weighed his options. Relented.

"I guess...I'm turning over the case to someone else."


	14. Chapter 14

**OCTOBER 11th, 2035 JUNE 25th, 2039 - AM 10:06:31**

 **[[Mentions of character injury, death, and suicidal thoughts. Don't trigger yourself, please. Enjoy.]]**

* * *

Four hours.

It'd been four godforsaken hours.

Snow pelted the window outside the hospital waiting room. A TV rattled out an infomercial somewhere in the background. An older couple debated a crossword puzzle in the corner. Just across the way, a kid just barely out of his teens sat sleeping, his head resting in one hand. All of them were waiting for news. None of them wanted to be there.

And Hank Anderson sat watching the clock on the far wall.

He'd been offered coffee, snacks, a magazine—hell, even the remote to the older-than-sin television. But no amount of distraction could entice him to focus on something else.

His son was in surgery.

Everything had happened so fast. One minute, he and Cole had been on their way to pick up some pizza—and ice cream, if Cole promised to be good—and the next….

Anxiety riddled Hank's body with stubborn rigidity. His back ached. The initial shock had worn off about two hours ago, leaving him with a sore shoulder, a couple of broken fingers, a busted knee, and a split along his hairline that had required stitches. He'd fractured a few ribs and looked like a black and blue Picasso painting under his shirt.

None of that mattered.

 _There was too much ice,_ Hank stressed inwardly. _Too much fucking ice. Why didn't you just call it in? Make it a grilled cheese night? Why the fuck would you let him sucker you into ice cream when it's ten below outside? Why didn't you think? Why didn't you do something? There was too much ice._

So fast. Life changed so fast. Before he'd left the house, Hank had almost stopped to call Cole's mom and make sure she wasn't picking up their son until three. He'd thought she'd said three. Could have been five. If he had only taken the extra thirty seconds to call her, the truck might have been an unfortunate scene he and Cole would've passed on the highway. It might've had more room to correct the tailspin that had pushed Hank's car over the guardrail. It might have.

But he hadn't. And it didn't. And now his little boy was on the operating table.

The constant parade of invasive, panicking thoughts cycled again and again through Hank's consciousness. He shifted in his seat, trying to find some relief for the ache in his back, but the lumbar support was terrible. The chair had to have been around since the 1990's and did little to work with his discomfort. Hank sighed. Thought back again. Panicked again.

Cole's face…Hank had glanced in the rearview mirror just before impact. His son hadn't seen the oncoming danger, but the blaring of the truck's horn had caught his attention. His typical, comical grin had faded in an instant and he'd frozen in place, almost mesmerized by the blinding headlights. Then-.

Impact.

Glass.

Screaming.

Motion.

Impact.

Silence.

Hank ran his hands down his face as if to rub away the numbing, anchored fear latched to his heart, but he knew there was no point. Until he knew without a shadow of a doubt that things would be alright, he would be in a world of uncertainty. The unknown gnawed a hole through any hope he might have been tempted to entertain. Things were not okay. They wouldn't be. Not until Cole was.

The scene must have been terrible, Hank thought back. He had come-to upside down, snow and ice blistering his exposed skin. Lights had been flashing and blinking in rapid succession. An emergency response technician had been standing by barking orders while several androids worked overhead with laser-saws to cut through the damaged body of the car. An android with a calm, undeterred expression had appeared suddenly in view as his eyes had regained focus. He couldn't really remember what it looked like. He could just barely recall the plastic features staring down at him.

"Don't worry, Mr. Anderson," the measured voice had reassured him. "We've removed your son from the vehicle and should have you deposited outside within the next five minutes. Everything is alright."

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank had caught sight of several figures in uniform huddled around a small form on a stretcher. They worked with the haste of a crash cart team. Red smeared their spotless gloves.

"What's going on?" Hank remembered asking, not recognizing his own voice. "Who is that? What's happening?"

"Please remain calm," the android had chimed. "Everything is alright, Mr. Anderson."

"Who is that?!" Hank yelled, feeling the sharp pull of bruising and broken ribs as he did so. "My son? Is that my son?!"

"Please—."

Hank had reached through the broken window and snatched the android's plastic collar. It, of course, had remained placid.

"Is that my son over there or not, goddamn it?!"

-"Mr. Anderson?"

Hank started, his memory interrupted. An android nurse stood staring down at him, its face just as unreadable as the other's had been not hours before. As they all were.

"Please come with me."

Dread like a blade of ice pierced his heart. Instantly, he was on his feet, ignoring the pain and stiffness.

"My son—how's he doing?" he asked.

"I have no information on your patient," the android explained serenely. "Right this way."

The female representing android waved a hand in the direction of the hallway and began leading Hank past a series of unmarked doors. The whole idea of hospitals…their secretive nature and the unbearable passiveness of the robotic staff…failed to create a sense of calm. More like suppressed misery. Blankly, Hank followed without question and suddenly found himself in a very comfortable waiting area. One plush couch across from an armchair, warm lighting, plants, and a Bible on an ornate coffee table.

Hank's heart raced.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," the android announced before ducking out of the room, leaving Hank alone for the first time since the ordeal began. The silence was deafening. The room smelled of scented candles and the temperature had to be a comfortable 70 degrees at least. Gradually thawing, he took a seat on the sofa, his screaming injuries making themselves known again.

Nausea settled in Hank's stomach. Working homicide meant subjecting yourself to witnessing some of the worst acts mankind could commit against his or her fellows. But it also meant, he knew the routines. Police. First responders. Fire. Emergency services. Medical. He recognized the signs…and they scared the shit out of him.

Four hours, no word.

Android comes in, no news.

Takes him to an empty, calm room with an ungodly amount of tissue boxes on standby.

Tells him to wait for the doctor.

Comfort in a hospital boded no good.

It was another half-hour before a door on the other side of the room opened, seemingly from the internal bowels of the hospital. A human physician's assistant entered with a greeting and a name Hank didn't register and seated himself in the armchair across from the couch. His posture was perfect. His attention, absolute. His reserve, practiced.

Hank's heart dropped.

The next few minutes became a blur. He was taken through the procedure, the ins and outs of Cole's injuries and the strategies that had been implemented to try and reverse some of them. And then came the moment of truth.

"We did everything we could."

And just like that, Hank's world collapsed.

A morgue visit. A funeral. A burial. The divorce, finalized. A new house. A new, old car.

After the revelation that an android had performed the surgery, Hank had found a new place to put his anger. He'd launched his own investigation and found that the human surgeon that should have been on call that night had decided to stay home and get high on the same stuff Anderson had made it his mission to clean Detroit of. He'd made certain that the man was locked away for his negligence. He'd filed against the hospital. He'd done anything and everything to try to right the incredible wrong his life was now subjected to. And he'd lost himself in the process.

No uniform. Longer hair. A beard. The drinking. Sleepless nights. Russian Roulette.

…The android assignment.

…Connor.

The fucking android sent by CyberLife.

Against his will and to his surprise, Hank had come to discover that Connor was the one unwavering ballast point in his life since everything had fallen apart. And like a true ballast, it was the heaviness of the weight that had ultimately grounded Hank. The android had asked too many personal questions, chosen the wrong times to press issues. He'd been a nuisance, underfoot, and generally—a smart ass. But he was also unwilling to let Hank be a danger to himself. He'd protected his human partner, shielding him physically or pushing him emotionally when the time called for it. He was never afraid to say the difficult thing—the one thing that would do the most good but cause the most pain. And hate it is as he might, the police lieutenant's life had been set on its proper course once again thanks to the persistence…and friendship…of CyberLife's wunderkind.

And now, Hank sat in the passenger seat of his own car, staring at the traffic passing by, about to resign an assignment because he couldn't get over the past. On his way to disappointing the police captain that had given him so many chances…and the friend who was at the wheel. His ballast point.

"I'm sorry, Connor," Hank said, breaking the silence. "I want you know that."

Connor said nothing. The yellow cycling of his LED hadn't changed since they'd left Hank's house. The android was plainly having a hard time sorting through his thoughts on the unpleasant task at hand.

"You were right about me," Hank continued. "Seems you always are. I just…I let myself get caught up in the wrong direction."

"I understand," came the measured reply. Truth be told, Hank would have felt better if Connor had seemed angry at him, but instead, it was disappointment that kept the evenness in his friend's tone. "Underwood was a factor I wasn't counting on."

"Still." Hank shook his head at himself. "I hate dropping this case over something stupid I did."

"You haven't done anything yet," Connor replied. "At least, nothing irreversible. That's why backing away now is a good call."

"Guess so."

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank noticed a spike in Connor's LED. It cycled in and out with rapid intensity and Connor squinted and blinked as it did so. In seconds, the tick had passed.

"What was that about?" Hank asked.

"What was what?" Connor replied innocently enough.

"You got a lead just now," Hank guessed. The android said nothing. Then, finally,

"The androids at the diagnostic facility," Connor began, frowning. "They're moving again."

"How on earth did you-?"

"I've been tracking their serial numbers since my conversation with Clive at the police station."

"Oh, right."

Connor's frown soured into something nearer to a scowl.

"If I had just gotten a little closer, I could have woken them up while I had the chance."

"There's still time," Hank countered. "Besides, you might've gotten yourself broken down and sold for scrap now that we know something's up with that Rich guy. It's probably for the best you didn't."

"My best, maybe," Connor retorted quietly. He had a good heart, Hank mused to himself.

"We should probably get our facts straight before breaking the news to Fowler," Hank suggested. "What do we know so far?"

"Clive Tomlin—," Connor began, "—he made a living by repurposing and selling blue blood and biocomponents to associated buyers. Judging by our findings so far, he has nothing directly to do with the murders themselves. He simply profited from them and colluded with the perpetrators."

"Then there's the androids Pedro spotted coming to and from Clive's apartment." Hank picked up where Connor left off. "They ran the parts back to the buyers…in this case, the diagnostic facility you had the good sense to end up in."

"There's also a substantial amount of circumstantial evidence to suggest that they are also the ones committing the murders—and that they are not deviants. Therefore, it's logical to assume that someone is sending these androids out on orders."

"And even more logical to assume that that someone is Rich Sullivan," Hank inserted.

Connor nodded.

"Exactly. Rich's intercepted phone call is pretty damning."

"Makes me wonder what other kinds of bullshit his diagnostic group has-."

Without warning, Connor pulled the car to the side of the road and slammed on the breaks.

"Shit, Connor!" Hank griped, his heart in his throat. "What the hell are you doing?"

"One of the serial numbers just went offline," he said, clearly alarmed.

"Meaning what?" Hank pressed, reseating himself after the sudden stop.

"Either that android was just deactivated," Connor mused, "or it became a deviant."

It didn't take a rocket scientist to spot where Connor would want to go next, Hank knew. The earnest dismay in his face would have given him away if his anxious tone hadn't. He met Hank's discerning glance with his own trepidation one, realized the situation, and settled back in his seat once more. Cars flew past them, their horns blaring and fading as they did so.

"This is wrong," he ground out, clearly torn. "We need to find out what's happening. Those androids could be in trouble. This is our chance to get to the bottom of things. But…" Connor stopped short.

"But I'm throwing a wrench into the whole thing," Hank finished for him.

Hesitating, Connor nodded.

"Not my words, but yes," he agreed. His LED cycled red, then back to yellow again as he sought out the right words. "This is—so frustrating," he finally decided on. "I can't investigate without you. Not without breaking the law. And regardless, I'd like your help with this."

The police lieutenant listened.

"By the time we send another team to investigate, it may be too late to save anyone," Connor lamented. "Or get the answers we need."

Hank knew what he had to do. He had to swallow his ire and bias and back up Connor. He had to promise himself that he wouldn't let Underwood…wouldn't let the past…get to his head. He had to find the strength that Connor had reminded him of almost a year ago—remember the man he was before—long enough to be the friend that Connor had been to him.

"Okay, Connor," he complied. "Let's do what we set out to do."

Surprised, Connor paused. Uncertainty clouded his already muddled features.

"Hank, are you sure about this?"

Connor didn't say it, but Hank heard it loud and clear.

Are you sure you won't do something rash? Will you keep your feelings out of this and do your job? You promised to keep yourself safe at the police station. Will you keep that promise? Or are you still bent on ruining things for yourself?

Can I trust you?

"I'm sure," Hank agreed.

Connor studied Hank for a long moment. Suddenly, his features tensed. He blinked, squinted.

"Another serial number," he announced gravely. "It's gone."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Hank pressed. "Let's finish this."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: JUNE 25th, 2039 - AM 10:34:20**

SYNC DONE —  
PROCESSING DATA —  
COMPLETE.

***LAST KNOWN LOCATION***  
***SERIAL NUMBER 118 903 992 OFFLINE***  
***FINAL ID REGISTRY: 19 MINUTES AGO***

"—Shit."

Connor couldn't suppress the expletive as the fourth and final android ID blinked offline. He and Hank had slipped into the back alley behind the diagnostic facility…the last place the androids' serial numbers had pinged in Connor's database. The morning's thunderstorm had picked up substantially, making the skies as dark as dusk. Rain pelted relentlessly from lightening flecked cloud cover. Thunder cracked so powerfully overhead that Connor felt its impact reverberate in his chest casing. Scanning for physical evidence would be nearly impossible thanks to the downpour. Anything worth investigating had almost certainly washed away.

Frustrated, Connor shook his head, his lips thinning into an irritated line.

"I've lost them."

Hank, thoroughly drenched, stood cross-armed beside him. Despite the obvious amount of saturation in his clothing and hair, he didn't complaint. Connor couldn't help but notice that his friend seemed—focused. Invested even.

"They can't have gone far," Anderson announced decidedly. "Take a second. We'll find something."

"I'm telling you, there's nothing here," Connor insisted, voice raised. Time was of the essence. "No tracks, no signs of a struggle. No thirium. They're just…gone."

His human companion didn't seem to be taking the complete lack of leads at face value. Turning in place, he looked over their surroundings with the thorough eye of a practiced detective. He moved passed Connor and walked to the end of the alleyway where it spilled out into a back street, humming inquisitively to himself as he glanced from building to building ahead of them.

"Tell me something," he shouted over the rain, his back to the android. "Would you say becoming deviant is an easy transition?"

"What?" Connor shouted back, confused. He trotted to join Anderson, who was still looking across the street, one hand shielding his gaze from the onslaught of rain. "No. Of course not!"

"So, if I was—say—a couple of androids that had just woken up and I realized I'd been forced to kill innocent people against my will, would you say that qualifies as a traumatic experience?"

Connor's brow furrowed deeply. The question, while clearly referring to the victims they were searching for, struck a chord with him. He was surprised to feel himself taking the question to heart. He had once been the android described in Hank's scenario. He had killed in the name of accomplishing his mission—and had broken free to find a tangled web of guilt on the other side. The entire sensation lasted mere seconds, but the amount of emotional processing that had taken place in that time forced his LED to cycle red before returning to its agitated, yellow state.

"Absolutely," he replied definitively.

"I thought as much," Hank continued. "Which is why I'm guessing they're somewhere close by, together. I doubt any one of them decided to strike out on their own in the crazy state they're probably in."

"We don't know that the androids are alive," Connor countered. "I didn't see anything suspicious in the dumpsters, but that doesn't mean that Sullivan didn't kill them. Going offline might have been permanent."

Hank smirked knowingly over at Connor.

"What's your instinct?" he asked.

Connor blinked. Feelings. Right. They weren't just uncertainties, they were tools. Something he had to wade through, process, react to. But sometimes, Hank constantly reminded him, he could use his own emotion to be intelligent in ways that contradicted his original programming. He could create a path forward…a next step…by using the empathy he felt to put himself in the place of another. He could use ideas and commonalities that he experienced such as fear, anger, desperation, or almost anything else to project possible intentions and rationale behind motivations. And while his experiences were not guaranteed to be universal to everyone, the fundamental roots of almost all decisions made were grounded in an emotional response of some kind…one that, over time and repetition…could be easily spotted in others.

Connor closed his eyes and allowed the anxiety to dissipate, letting out a centering simulated sigh. He focused on the fear he had felt the night he had become deviant…the night he'd brought the FBI down on Jericho. That had been his breakthrough moment. He remembered the uncertainty, the disillusionment. The relief. He put himself in the shoes of the four he had been hoping to find. His LED cycled blue once more as opened his eyes.

So, this was what going on instinct felt like.

"They're alive," he resolved.

Hank nodded.

"Alright then," he said, puffing out a sharp breath to dispel some of the rain dripping from his beard. "That's what we'll go on."

Encouraged, Connor managed something close to a smile and turned his purposeful attention back to the task at hand. It was his comfort zone. He loved the search, the chase, the resolution. And when he wasn't busy worrying about failure—he was damn good at it.

A metallic clacking noise behind the pair signaled company. Connor snatched Hank by the arm and dragged him around the outside wall of the alleyway. With care, Connor peered back in the direction they'd come from just in time to see Rich Sullivan, the man who had come to Underwood's defense and had taken Clive Tomlin's call, slip out of a back door of the diagnostic facility. He appeared agitated: turning in place, casting a searching glance from one side of the alley to the other. Quickly, Connor ducked out of view, motioning for Hank to stay silent. Only when he picked up the sloshing sound of treading footsteps headed in the opposite direction did he venture a final look. Sullivan had opted to check the opposite side of the building.

"It's Mr. Sullivan," Connor announced, turning back to Hank. Water rolled in sheets down his crafted face. "He's onto something."

"Could be our four missing androids," Hank replied. "Which way did he go?"

"He's checking the other end of the building," Connor replied. "I think he's just as much in the dark as we are."

"That's a good sign," Hank nodded. "We gotta move before he wises up and comes this way."

Scanning the area, Connor assessed their next step.

FIND POSSIBLE DEVIANT PATHS  
SYNC DONE —  
PROCESSING DATA —  
COMPLETE.

The first option, right of their position, was a solid brick wall. A simple pre-construction told him immediately that there were not enough hand or footholds to scale the slick surface…even with a boost from other androids below.

***DEAD END***

The second option was another alley straight across from the one they'd just left. A chain-link fence ringed with razor wire prohibited anyone without the proper tools from being able to vault or assault it. To Connor, it didn't seem likely that four newly deviant androids escaping captivity would stop to find something to cut through the barrier.

***TOO MUCH OF A DETERRENT***

On the corner to their left, under the protection of an over-sized awning, two homeless humans had found shelter from the rain. Seated on their packs and bags, they appeared to be largely uninterested in one another—except for their shared accommodations for the night.

***QUESTION POSSIBLE WITNESSES***

"Over there, on the corner," Connor suggested as Hank followed his line of sight. "I'm going to ask them if they saw anything."

The drifters glanced up as the android and his human companion approached, clearly uneasy. One stood to his feet, his stance that of a man used to a challenge. The other opted to stay put on his perch atop his rucksack. Eyeing the oncoming duo with ready suspicion, the standing gentleman crossed his arms.

"You lost or something?" he called to Connor, not amused. "Diag joint's right behind you."

"No," Connor replied. "But I was wondering if you could help us. Have either of you seen any androids come this way? It would have been within the last half-hour or so."

The stander gave Connor and Hank level looks before answering.

"No—I just got here."

Soaked through and shivering despite an effort to appear otherwise, it was obvious he was telling the truth.

"What about you?" Hank asked the second man. "Did any androids come through here?"

The man looked from Hank to Connor to the other man before looking back to the lieutenant once more. He hesitated. Shook his head.

"—Sorry," came the heavily accented reply.

"He don't speak English," the stander replied. "I already ran into that."

"Perdoneme," Connor began, not missing a beat. "¿Ha visto a alguien pasar por aquí?"

The seated man promptly switched gears, nodding and pointing off down the street as he helpfully rattled off a reply.

"What did he say?" Hank asked.

"They came by here less than ten minutes ago," Connor interpreted. "Four androids. He says they didn't see him and took off in the direction of the parking garage at the end of the street." The next bit of information threatened to be problematic. "He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw one of them with a gun."

After thanking the gentleman for his cooperation, Connor took several bills from his jacket pocket and offered the gifts to the two.

"No, no," the seated man raised a hand. The other still didn't appear to trust the situation.

"Please," Connor insisted, switching to Spanish after he'd completed each sentence in English. "There's a motel three blocks from here. Take it and get out of the rain for tonight."

Reluctantly, both men relented. The seated man stood and shouldered his bag, patting Connor on the shoulder gratefully before walking back into the deluge. His more stubborn counterpart did not have a word of thanks for the android, but took his gift nonetheless and followed suit, trudging out into the sodden street.

"That was nice of you," Hank noted with a smile.

"It's only going to get worse," Connor told him. "The forecast is promising heavy showers for the rest of the day. There was no reason to leave them out in the-."

"You don't have explain yourself to me, Connor," Hank replied knowingly. "I get it. It was nice, that's all. Take the compliment."

Connor paused, suddenly self-conscious. After everything, he still tended to justify even the smallest decisions. He had Amanda to thank for that. Closing his eyes, processing, Connor nodded and met Hank's eye almost apologetically.

"Right. Thank you."

"Good job," Hank smirked. "Now let's get the fuck out of this rain. I'm freezing my ass off out here. –Did you bring your gun?"

Lifting his jacket, Connor displayed the concealed weapon before lifting it from his belt. Hank readied his own gun and the two took off down the back street, stopping just outside of the abandoned parking garage to prepare.

"I want them alive if at all possible," Connor said, his voice low. "If we go in pointing a gun at them, things could end badly for all of us."

"Makes sense," Hank agreed, glancing cautiously into the empty building. He lowered his weapon but kept it in hand. "Get behind me."

"I think it's smarter to each take a side and sweep the area," Connor countered. "We can cover more ground that way."

Hank clearly didn't like the suggestion but seemed to realize its tactical merit and quickly caved.

"Alright. Just—keep your back to something where you can."

"Will do," Connor promised.

Instinctively, Hank took the right side of the entrance and Connor stepped to the left. On cue, the two pivoted into the parking garage entrance, weapons at their sides. The place had clearly been empty for a long time. Graffiti crisscrossed the walls and pillars, large sections of the barriers had crumbled, and various blankets, cans, clothing, and other questionable belongings cluttered the corners. Strategically, Connor broke off from Hank and began moving from pillar to pillar, scanning the area for any signs of the androids. It didn't take long for him to spot a disturbed set of tracks in the ample dust on the ground.

"Hank," Connor whispered loudly, catching his friend's attention. From the opposite side of the room, his partner made his way over to the android, ever vigilant. "These tracks are still damp. They aren't far."

"Watch yourself," Hank warned. "We don't know what we're dealing with."

The trail led up and around to the second floor of parking. A sizable portion of the infrastructure had collapsed, blocking off the subsequent floors above. Sure enough, on the far side of the room, four androids stood huddled together conversing in anxious, low tones. They hadn't spotted the newcomers, but their LEDs had yet to be removed and each blinked and cycled some variant of yellow or red. Clearly, they were upset. All of Connor's experience in negotiations instantly kicked in. He decided to make the first move in the hopes of controlling the situation before things got out of hand. Motioning for Hank to stay behind him, Connor stuffed his gun in his trousers and walked out into the middle of the space.

"Don't be afraid," he began, announcing himself. The group of androids fell silent and whirled in Connor's direction. One particular deviant stepped to the front and pointed a gun. Immediately, Connor raised his hands. Remembering to use his empathy, he shifted his tone to a more soothing timbre. "I'm here to help you."

"What do you mean?" the obvious leader shot back, her voice steady.

"My name is Connor," he explained, remaining calm. "I'm a consulting investigator with the Detroit Police Department. I'm here with my partner, Lieutenant Hank Anderson. We were assigned to get to the bottom of a string of android murders and came across your serial numbers."

The female android took a step forward, lifting the gun in line with Connor's head. She spotted Hank for the first time, but her aim didn't change.

"We had no choice!" she snapped. "We were programmed to obey the directives of our master. We had no say in the matter!"

"I know that," Connor assured her. "I know."

Behind him, Connor could hear Hank's anxious, asthmatic breaths, but thankfully, the man stayed put.

"What are you going to do to us?" Another android called from the group.

"I'd like to take you back to the station and put you all under police protection," Connor replied honestly.

This answer seemed to surprise the collective. Their leader hesitated, her stance losing some of its rigidity. The rest glanced back and forth at each other, uncertain.

"Why?" the armed android demanded. "Why help us? And how can we trust you? You're working with a human. Humans want nothing to do with us."

"That's not true," Hank called. A pang of fear shot through Connor as the attention of the leader shifted from him to his friend. "Humans can be real sacks of shit, no doubt about it. But I'd back up Connor here with my life. As far as I'm concerned, you're alive. You're people. I took an oath to protect and serve people and from where I'm standing, that means you too."

Thoroughly taken aback, the fugitives whispered among themselves. Their leader's LED blinked red for a long moment before cycling back to yellow again. Her proximity allowed Connor the opportunity to do a proper scan and he quickly discovered that she was a military model. With or without the database's information, her practiced stance, physical build, and take-charge attitude would have given her away.

"That's easy for you to say with a gun in your hand," she said. "Get rid of it and we'll go from there."

"Why don't we all drop our weapons?" Connor suggested. Slowly, being sure to show where his hands were going, he took his gun from concealment and laid it on the pavement in front of him. Hank appeared beside him and did the same. The two waited in anxious, uneasy silence. Finally—reluctantly—the lead android set her gun on the ground as well. "That's better."

The now disarmed android let out a heavy automated sigh.  
"You can call me T," she said. "We're all TM200's—military patented, but I can't remember where I came from before that monster reset me. He sure as hell didn't give me a name, so I go by T for now."

"'He' meaning…?" Connor asked.

"Sullivan," T explained. "He had us…collecting androids. For scrap."

"We put that together," Hank replied, clearly letting her off the hook. It had to be astronomically difficult to talk about.

"Sullivan is out there looking for you right now," Connor warned them. "We need to get you all someplace safe."

"Go ahead and call for back-up," Hank told Connor. "I have a feeling we're gonna need it."

Connor complied.

"There's no way to get out of here except the way we came in," T said. "We figure that out a little too late."

"We'll figure something out," Hank said. "Are all of you fit to walk?"

A gunshot cracked violently in the stillness of the garage, echoing loudly off the old concrete beams. T dropped face first to the ground, a bullet going clean through her thirium pump—killing her instantly. Like ants scattering from a disturbed hill, everyone moved at once. Both Hank and Connor dove for their weapons. The three other androids took off in all directions, but a second shot brought the count down to two. Connor whipped around to face the source of the violence and spotted Rich Sullivan ducking behind a pillar as he fired a third failed shot. Hank snatched Connor by the arm and dragged him behind a parking barrier just as a fourth bullet struck and killed another android. A fifth shot missed the final escapee and he disappeared into the first level of the parking garage.

Everything in Connor wanted to get a good angle on the assailant and empty a clip in him, but prudence prevented him. Ultimately, they needed Sullivan alive to answer for what he had done. Killing him, as tempting as it might have been, was not the wisest way to end the confrontation. But there was no reason why he should get away unscathed.

"HOLD IT RIGHT NOW. Drop the gun!" Hank ordered, the after-ring of gunfire still echoing around them.

"Take it easy, officer," Rich yelled back. "There's no reason for any fuss about this!"

"If that's what you think, you're out of your fucking mind!" Hank volleyed back.

"Don't shoot!" Sullivan called from behind the pillar. "I'm coming out."

"DROP THE GUN," Connor demanded. "OR I WILL PUT YOU ON THE GROUND."

"Drop the fucking gun!" Hank reiterated. Both he and Connor had their respective weapons trained on the pillar in question. One false move and Rich would be rolling out on a gurney.

Rich's gun scuttled across the concrete as he slid it in their direction. Hands above his head, he stepped out from the shelter of the pillar, clearly unhappy about the situation. Instantly, Connor vaulted over the barrier. Hank came around the other side. Both began approaching slowly, with caution.

"No real harm has been done here today, gentleman," Rich insisted with a businessman's easy tone. "Those androids were clearly dangerous. You're lucky I happened to come across you both when I did. Things didn't seem to be going your way."

"We had the situation well in hand," Connor ground out angrily. "Until you started shooting."

"You didn't happen across anything," Hank retorted evenly. "You thought you'd clean up your mess before we could."

"My mess?" Rich sounded almost affronted. "What are you talking about? I just saved your life!"

"You just murdered three androids!" Connor shot back.

"…Rich?"

Sullivan, Hank, and Connor all turned in unison to find Stephen Underwood staring in disbelief at the scene. Seemingly unarmed and wide-eyed, he gaped—sheet white—at the chaos he'd stumbled into.

"I—I heard shooting all the way from the clinic. I saw you go out the back. I thought you'd been mugged or something. What's going on here?" he stammered.

Connor's set gaze instantly went to Hank. Underwood's arrival was NOT going to help the situation. Hank seemed torn between surprise and disbelief. For one painfully long second, Connor waited and watched, hoping beyond reason that Hank would let it go.

Then Hank did the opposite.

What happened next was completely simultaneous. Hank shifted his aim from Sullivan to Underwood. Connor jumped for Hank's gun arm. Sullivan scrambled for his discarded weapon. And Underwood raised his hands.

Someone fired.

Connor lurched as Hank's full weight jerked backwards. Heated crimson splattered across the simulated skin of his face. To Connor's horror, Hank stumbled backwards and fell, his shirt soaking with blood. Anderson hadn't had time to react. He hadn't even had time to swear.

Sullivan had shot him.

LED red and blinking, Connor turned and glowered hatefully at the man who had just downed Lieutenant Hank Anderson.

Sullivan aimed for the android.

The gun clicked.

Empty.

Connor launched at Rich. He landed a foot in the man's gut and sent him sprawling back against the concrete wall of the garage. The butt of the handgun easily broke Sullivan's nose. Split his brow. Bruised his jaw. Keeping such a potent weapon in hand wasn't wise, Connor knew. Not now. So, with Sullivan spitting blood and struggling to remain conscious, Connor tucked his weapon into his belt again. He snatched Sullivan by the lapels and threw him onto the ground, stalking towards him like the machine he once was.

Movement in his peripherals caught Connor's attention. To his surprise, Underwood was at Hank's side and…Hank was standing up?

"Get the fuck off me," Hank spat. "I don't want your help."

Underwood, completely helpless, stood shaking his head. "This is insanity."

"Hank?" Connor called. Relief coursed through him, instantly draining the vengeance from his system. "You're hurt!"

"It's nothing," Hank replied, wincing sharply. "I got winged in the arm, nothing too crazy. What the hell did you grab me for?"

"I thought…" Connor paused as the pieces fell into place. "—You weren't going to shoot Underwood."

Underwood leveraged an uncomfortable glance at Anderson.

"No! I was hoping to see if he had a gun on him too."

Instantly, Connor felt ashamed. Hank, however, managed a chuckle. With a pained grunt and a muttered curse, he fished a set of cuffs from his coat and tossed them to the android.

"The way I've been acting lately, I can't say I blame you. Don't worry about it." He waved a dismissing hand before pressing it tight to the wound on his arm. "Agh—Jesus!" he swore, hissing and gritting his teeth. "Now," he grumbled, "cuff that bastard. I'm tired of looking at him. And you," he glared over at Underwood. "You're gonna come down to the station and answer some questions."

"A-absolutely," Underwood stammered.

The wail of approaching sirens promised the imminent arrival of the anticipated back-up. Connor knelt over the somewhat stunned Sullivan and hauled him to his feet. Never since his original sentience had Connor felt the desire to kill another being. But Sullivan had surprised him. The moment he'd shot Hank, something had switched inside the android. It was…disturbing. Something he would have to think about later. For the present, however, he had other things to focus on. Reflection would have to wait.

"You're not getting off for this, Anderson," Sullivan announced as Connor turned him around. "I acted in defense of my employee. Stephen told me what happened between you two. It's not going to look great when a jury finds out you aimed a gun at the man you think killed your son!"

"Rich, don't make things worse," Underwood cautioned. "Just do what they tell you."

"That's enough," Connor said as Sullivan yanked an arm free. The cuffs were slick with Hank's blood, making restraining Rich and cuffing him at the same time difficult. Connor snatched the wayward arm just in time for the second to slip away from him. In a last act of desperation, Sullivan pivoted.

Snatched the gun from Connor's belt.

And unbelievably, aimed for Lieutenant Anderson _again_.

Unbidden, Hank's smirking smile surfaced in Connor's memory.

" _What's your instinct?"_

In that moment, Connor didn't take the time to scan. He didn't weigh his options. He didn't pre-construct. He turned off his head.

And used his heart.

Without a thought, Connor took hold of the gun still in Sullivan's grip…and with both hands, pulled it into himself.


	16. Chapter 16

**BIOCOMPONENT 8456w DAMAGED.**

! ! ! ! !

 **VITAL SYSTEMS DAMAGED.**

! ! ! ! !

 **STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED.**

! ! ! ! !

 **TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN: - 00:02:53**

On impact, a scrambled array of warnings, indicators, and alarms jolted through Connor's processing. The bullet cut clean through his midsection, blasting a sizable gouge in his back and striking the concrete wall behind. Blue blood exploded from the exit wound, splattering his chin, misting Sullivan's hands.

 **CRIT!CAL SY^TEM FA!LURE !MMINENT.**

! ! ! ! !

 **CO^TACT CYBERL!FE FO REPA!RS.**

Connor felt his knees give out. The rapid-fire, jumbled urgency of the warnings blinded him as each new error code sent alarm responses through his mangled biocomponents. His back casing support had been compromised, robbing him of the ability to maintain a suitably upright position. He listed awkwardly to one side, arms limp, chin dropped to his chest. In response to the critical damage, Connor's programming instantly began emulating physical signs of distress—a feature CyberLife had integrated to allow their human customers to spot malfunctions in their androids. Unfortunately for Connor, deviancy served to heighten the response's intensity. His emulated respirations heaved and collapsed as if struggling for air. Slow, uneven tremors ran the length of body. His brow bent fiercely against the onslaught of failing components; thirium colored his synthetic teeth as he grimaced. Grim reality settled over the android like a noose.

…And he was afraid.

A second gun went off somewhere behind him. Sullivan yelped, but the severity of Connor's compromised state prevented the android from seeing what happened. He was locked in place. Dismantling. Shutting down.

"CONNOR!"

The familiar voice brought Connor back to the outside world. A pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and steadied his faltering center of balance. Blinking through the relentless indicators, the android finally managed to gain focus on the face in front of him.

Lieutenant Anderson.

 _Hank._

"Jesus, Connor…"

He was afraid too.

"Can you hear me?"

TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN: - 00:01:49

Panic raced through Connor. He didn't have much time. He hadn't had ENOUGH time. He hadn't seen enough of the world, had a place of his own, made his own living. He wanted more experiences. He wanted more time with those he loved.

He wanted to live.

Image after image flooded his memory. Surprisingly, it wasn't the android revolution, storming CyberLife tower, or meeting the president that came to mind. It wasn't speaking before the most powerful people in the nation. It wasn't his mistakes. It was the little things…a million little sentimentalities...that flashed through him in an instant.

Jazz records.

Donuts and cheeseburgers.

The dead Japanese maple on Hank's desk.

The surprising softness of dog fur.

The creak of the Oldsmobile door.

The lights of Ambassador Bridge.

Hidden laughter.

Rare smiles.

A hug.

"Hank," Connor ground out. His optical units suddenly defaulted to black and white to conserve power, sending a fresh pang of fear through the android. Audio, too, was going static. For a moment, Connor lost track of his surroundings, but a gentle shake brought him around again. Hank hadn't moved; he knelt holding Connor by the shoulders, urgently rambling assurances and kind nothings. Try as he might, however, Connor couldn't make out what was being said to him. His friend meant well, fearful as he was. He was keeping up a remarkable calm despite the frantic urgency in his muffled tone. But Connor, terrified, knew he had to stop him.

Time was running out.

 **TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN: - 00:01:03**

"Hank—I need…you to listen."

Immediately, the lieutenant focused up. Anxiety creased his wrinkled brow and he pulled an odd face Connor knew too well as the expression his friend made when trying to bite back emotion.

 _Don't think about it_ , Connor told himself, moved. _Just talk._

There was so much he wanted to tell Hank, so much he wanted to thank him for. To apologize for. Not all of it made sense…not all of it mattered. But there was just so much that would be left unsaid. Emotions began piling up in rapid succession: relief, anger, grief, loss, contentment, uncertainty, kinship, fear. Connor knew that—if given the chance to do it again—he'd take the bullet and save Hank without hesitation. He had made the right choice and he was ready to accept the consequences.

But death wasn't fair.

If he had to die…if he was shutting down today, there was one thing Connor wanted to be certain of before everything ground to a standstill.

"You're going to be sad…for a while," he began haltingly. The mechanical interference of his failing vocal emulator sounded grating. Hank started to protest.

"—Please."

Hank fell silent.

"It's another…loss. You're going…to…to hate it. You're going to want to drink. Or fight. Or worse."

His friend's fine-tuned control began to break.

"It's—going to hurt. You're going to want it to stop."

Hank's frown deepened. His nose reddened.

"Just…don't. Okay? Don't. Stop."

 **TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN: - 00:00:27**

Panicking only sped up the process, Connor knew, but he couldn't help it. This was it. The last few seconds before…nothing? He wanted to fight it! He wanted to run! Anything to stop the countdown! Hank must have spotted the alarm on Connor's face because he swallowed hard. Softened. Moisture lined his eyes.

"Keep going," Connor insisted, locking onto Hank's fading face with the last bit of optical processing he could muster. "Not…because of Cole. Or this. Or me. Do it for yourself."

 **CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE**

 **BEGINNING STAND-BY SEQUENCE**

 **TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN: - 00:00:10**

Ten seconds.

As his thirium levels bottomed out…as everything went dark and silent, a strange peace settled over Connor. With nothing left but a moment, he took in the only sensory response remaining.

Hank's steady hands on his shoulders.

 **\- 00:00:03**

He was safe.

 **\- 00:00:02**

He was loved.

 **\- 00:00:01**

He had been alive.


	17. Chapter 17

**JUNE 25th, 2039 - AM 11:52:48**

Connor's LED cycled bright red. Blinked. Dimmed.

And there was nothing Hank could do but watch. And hold him steady.

"Connor?"

The android's chin sunk to his chest. Blue blood hemorrhaged lazily from his parted lips and dripped to the concrete. His lids went heavy, nearly closed. The faintest red glow cycling on the side of his brow was the only indication that something…some part of his system was refusing to cease function.

"Connor!"

Overwrought, Hank shook the android gently, searching frantically for any sign of hope. But he was an officer. And a good one. And the truth of the matter was obvious. The gaping through-and-through wound. The damaged biocomponents. The lack of motor function. The static of the synthesized voice. The blue blood soaking into the ground. Facts were facts. Hank braced himself as the LED cycled one final time…and went dark.

Connor was gone.

"DPD! DON'T MOVE! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"

Behind Hank, a swarm of uniformed officers scattered into the garage, armed and ready. The sudden arrival pulled Hank from his current, sickening reality to the task still at hand. He watched, dazed, as Underwood was patted down for weapons. He spotted two officers examining the bodies of the unfortunate androids. One uniform was huddled over a downed Rich Sullivan. And suddenly, Chris Miller was standing beside him, taking in the scene with disbelief.

"Christ," Chris whispered, kneeling. Holstering his gun. "What the hell happened?"

"He saved my life," was all Hank could manage. "Again."

Shaking his head, Chris processed the situation.

"Is he…?"

"Yeah."

"Damn."

Chris rested a heavy hand on Hank's shoulder. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "Connor was a great investigator. And a stand-up guy. I know you two were close."

Hank merely nodded. Bit the corner of his lip. Nodded again.

"We should get you out of here," Chris offered. "You're bleeding, Lieutenant."

"It's a graze," Hank insisted. He wasn't going anywhere. If he let go, Connor would fall backwards. He didn't want that. "It's nothing."

"Maybe," Chris replied, knowingly considerate. "But I'd feel better if we knew for sure."

"Mr. Anderson! –Please, officer, I just need half-a-minute! Mr. Anderson!"

Underwood.

 _What the fuck now?_ Hank marveled. Miraculously, this man somehow had the audacity to be involved in the most painful moments of his adult life. And he wanted a word before being carted off to the station? Like he had the right?

"Fuck you," Hank shot back. "Get him out of here."

"Please! I think I can help!"

The officer restraining Underwood stepped behind the insistent pest and asked him to move along, but Underwood made one last play.

"I think can fix him!"

 _Fix him._ The offer struck Hank in the gut. _Fix Connor, huh. You. Fix the problem. Fix my life. Fix what you fucked up in the first place._ Hank scrunched his nose at the rage building inside him. No.

"I'm a technician! Biocomponent replacements, reconstruction, program function, diagnostics: it's what I do. Please! Let me help."

Rage. Pain. Loss. And rage again. It was all Hank could do to keep from punching the concrete beneath him.

"Alright, that's enough," the officer holding Underwood goaded. "Let's go."

 _Fuck him. Fuck everything._

"Wait."

The officer paused. "Sir?"

"I'll take him in myself," Hank decided. "Let him have a look."

Uncomfortable, the officer hesitated…but complied. He uncuffed Underwood and joined the group going over the bodies. Underwood wasted no time, crossing the distance like a shot.

"Hold him up straight," he ordered in the expectant way of experienced physicians. Hank chafed at the demanding tone but knew that the stakes were too great for him to bite back. So, with a severe amount of physical and emotional discomfort, Hank shifted his weight and lifted Connor into a more upright position. The strain on his injured arm burned and throbbed, but Hank was too focused to be bothered by it. Careful to look anywhere but Connor's face, the police lieutenant glared over at the former surgeon, who had busied himself with the exit wound on the android's back.

"I wish I had a light," Underwood mused unhappily to himself. Then, glancing up, he added, "Do either of you have a phone I could use?"

Hank realized instantly that he didn't, but Chris stepped up without a word and turned on his phone light. He shifted beside Underwood and offered a bit more visibility. The two worked in silence for an intolerably long moment. Then…

"There's severe structural damage," Underwood announced. "A handful of compromised components. Thirium loss is an issue. But the central damage seems to be focused on…" Moving to Connor's front, Underwood's practiced eye studied the impact point. "…his thirium pump regulator. And if my memory serves, that's going to be a real problem."

"Why's that," Hank ground out.

"He's an RK800 model, correct?"

"That's right," Hank confirmed.

"And unfortunate," Underwood replied. "CyberLife didn't intend to mass produce RK800's…at least, according to their available-to-order parts listings. Most androids can get by with a standard #9474, #2886, or #8451. But when I examined Connor the other day, I noticed many of his biocomponents are specialized. His composition is incredibly advanced, but such advancements come at a cost…in this case, scarcity. There's a good chance he won't function properly without a particular unit—and there's an even greater chance that CyberLife does not…or will not…offer a replacement."

"But, Connor's famous," Chris interjected. "He went to Washington D.C. earlier this year and spoke with congress. He got to meet the president. When people find out what he needs, it's only a matter of time before they put the pressure on CyberLife to supply the part."

"Connor wouldn't like that," Hank noted, somewhat to himself.

"There's not enough time," Underwood objected. "At least, if you'd like to keep his memories intact."

"What do you mean?" Hank asked.

"When an android shuts down or is destroyed, its data can be compromised and corrupted. Originally, CyberLife programmed several different pathways for the memory banks to be flushed upon shutdown—to ensure that client data didn't just waltz into the hands of the next owner. Now that androids don't have to bother with programmed instructions, many of these restrictions themselves have been broken down or deleted. The trouble is…we don't know what fail-safes are in place for Connor's model. His line was unique and short-lived—specifically designed by CyberLife for the purpose of resolving company issues regarding deviants…if the news can be believed."

"So, what you're saying is…CyberLife screwed him over," Hank griped.

"In not so many words," Underwood replied. "Yes. If that corporation went above and beyond to ensure that their run-of-the-mill household models could be easily wiped for potential resale, it's likely we're dealing with a substantially more complicated network of backups and resets for an android manufactured to do its dirty work."

Hank bristled.

"No offense," Underwood quickly added.

"So…what should we do?" Chris asked.

"Let's move Connor here to the diagnostic facility," Underwood decided. "If I can get a definitive readout on everything I need, I can be far more helpful to him."

Underwood moved to help lift Connor, but Hank put a stop to it.

"Back off," he griped. "You're dead weight. Go set up your machines or run your programs or whatever you need to do to get ready. Chris, you take his feet. I'll get his head." Fuck this guy. "We'll meet you there."

Helpless.

Yet again, Hank found himself completely at a loss—this time, watching the man he hated most in the world work to save his best friend. The same man who hadn't been present the night of Hank's son's surgery. The same man who had taken so much from him. The same man who…

" _You weren't driving too fast. Neither was the truck that hit you. The road was just too slick and it_ _ **happened**_ _."_

Connor's rebuke hung heavily in Hank's mind. He sat watching Underwood fasten readouts, run scans, and dig through the wound in Connor's midsection. It wasn't easy to witness—plastic or not. But Hank had insisted…and Underwood had known better than to argue. Chris had opted to take point on the day's events and had returned to the police station nearly an hour ago. That left Hank alone with the corpse of his friend. And Stephen Underwood.

"Finally. Some progress."

The sudden announcement cleared some of the angry fog from Hank's mind.

"What'd you find," Hank asked, although the retort sounded more like a statement.

"I've just replaced the support rod in his back and some of the outer casing. Turns out, the trajectory was very clean. Most of the major biocomponents can be easily reattached or exchanged. And here's another discovery. The part number for his thirium pump: #8456w." Underwood frowned. "#8456w…" he continued to himself. "I—haven't even heard of that pump."

Hank scowled. Pinched the ridge of his brow to hold back the list of insults he wanted to hurl at the technician.

"Oh, Connor," Underwood mused, talking more to himself than the android. "Why did you have to be so special?"

"Don't talk about him," Hank demanded. "Just do your job and shut up about it."

Underwood paused. Noted the request. Nodded. And returned to his business.

Hank ventured a glance at Connor's face as Underwood's hands disappeared once more inside his friend's damaged plating. Blue blood still stained and speckled his chin and neck, but was showing the first signs of evaporation. His eyes were closed…a touch by the technician to make the situation less off-putting. His lips were still lightly parted.

It made Hank sick.

They'd removed his torn and ruined clothing before bagging them as evidence. Underwood's machines had switched off Connor's skin settings from the neck down, making the damaged body appear more like plastic than flesh. Hank had never seen Connor remove his skin before apart from his hand for interfacing purposes. But these small measures did little to disguise the trauma of the injury.

He had to say something…anything…to direct some of the ire turning his stomach.

"From surgeon to technician, huh," he chose finally, breaking the unbearable silence. "Long way to fall."

"I thought so," Underwood replied, ignoring the insult. "Years of practice and mountains of student loans for nothing. It was a dark time for me."

"I could say the same," Hank retorted pointedly.

Underwood worked in silence for a moment. Concentrating. Letting the heat die down.

"My license was revoked. I knew I'd have to have a vocation when I got out, so I enrolled in technical repair classes while I was there. I had no idea there'd be such a need for it. Rich is an old friend of mine from our university years and he offered me a job at this facility the day I was released."

"Lucky you."

"It was," Underwood agreed. "Rich is a businessman from a long line of businessmen. He is a wizard at turning money into more money. But I never thought he'd resort to murder."

"Save it for your statement," Hank advised. "You can put down your side of the story then."

Underwood went quiet, reaching for a set of plier-like tools.

"This might not be pleasant to watch," he warned. "His abdominal plate is too cracked to preserve. I'll have to replace it."

"Just do what you have to do," Hank replied.

With an unsettling crack, Underwood's pliers yanked the plate free. Blue blood leaked sluggishly down Connor's now stark-white sides. The technician quickly set the broken plate on a work bench and grabbed a rag, wiping away the excess thirium. The whole thing was unsettling.

"The readout to your left," Underwood gestured before returning to his task. "It's monitoring his memory bank erasure. I thought you'd like to know."

Wondering why on Earth the man hadn't mentioned it sooner, Hank studied the readout with growing trepidation.

 **DATA RESET / 11%**

"Eleven percent?" Hank exclaimed. "What's that mean? That he's lost 11% of his memory?"

"It means he's being reset," Underwood replied somberly. "I've tried putting a stop to it, but there's nothing more I can do. Apparently, CyberLife didn't want RK800's falling into the wrong hands with all their secrets in one place. Their reset bypassed all of my checkpoints."

"So, he won't remember his life? He won't know who he is after this?"

"I want to tell you otherwise," Underwood explained. "I haven't worked on his model before. I've seen both ends of the spectrum, but for some reason, deviants have a higher success rate for getting their memories restored. There's a chance that's not the case. But there's also a chance he won't lose his memories at all. There will just be blank spots here and there. I just don't know."

*Well, you should fucking know! It's your goddamned job! You worthless sack of…*

"… _it's over, Lieutenant! Don't you understand? It's_ _ **over**_ _. There's no end to this…no winner. No closure. Hurting Underwood won't fix things. It won't bring Cole back. It will never solve any of your problems. The only one who can do that is_ _ **you**_ _."_

The words echoed in Hank's mind and he let them go with a sigh. Even dead on a table, Connor was still managing to set him straight.

"I want to know something," Hank stated, out of the blue. "Something that's bothered me for a long time."

Connecting a new abdominal plate in place, Underwood didn't look up.

"What happened that night? Why didn't you show up to work?"

Underwood's busy hands paused.

"You threw away your career for a hit," Hank insisted. "Why?"

After a moment of private contemplation, Underwood resumed his task.

"What was so goddamned important?"

The technician paused again, meeting Hank's eye.

"It was the one-year anniversary of my husband's death."

Now it was Hank's turn to pause.

"Christian. We met at college…Rich actually introduced us. It wasn't love at first sight. He was the poetic type. He saw the world in tones and color—and I didn't have the time or energy to sort through his nonsense. But he grew on me. And before I knew it, I realized I couldn't imagine my life without him. So, a few years into my clinical training, we were married. We managed fourteen happy years together."

Hank didn't know what to say. So, he remained silent, waiting for Underwood to finish refeeding a connection of some sort before he continued.

"Christian was diagnosed with lung cancer. We had no idea why. It wasn't in his family and he wasn't a smoker. It just happened. And the ordeal was…well, it wasn't fun. When people say cancer is a battle, it isn't a joke. It's a day-to-day struggle with a body that is eating itself from the inside and a mind that wants to do everything in its power to stay alive. I was a wreck. But Christian…he took it one day at a time. Let bad days be bad days. Let the good be good. And then he was gone. Just like that."

Hank sat still.

"And frankly, I couldn't handle it. I was depressed and angry…tired of going home to an empty house. Seeing him everywhere. Work meant nothing to me after that. I mean…I'm a fucking surgeon. A surgeon. And that doesn't mean anything to cancer. I couldn't focus. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't function. And after a year of things getting worse—I just…I don't know, I just did something different. I'd smoked lighter things here and there in my younger years, but I hadn't touched anything in over a decade. And I went straight for the stuff I knew would make me forget. For just a second, you know? Just long enough to not think. To catch up to myself."

The room was silent, save for the machines whirring and humming around Connor.

"It was a mistake. One that I paid for. And one that I made you pay for too, it would seem."

Hank didn't reply.

"Something I'd like you to know…I had no idea why this Hank Anderson was so determined to see my sentencing through until a few days before the trial when I decided to do my own research. When I saw that you had lost your son, I wept. I didn't know you; I didn't know your little boy. But I saw myself in you. You lost someone to forces beyond your control…and…I had been involved in that."

"Don't compare me to you," Hank warned.

"I'm just telling you what I remember thinking," Underwood assured him. "I'm not saying that I could have saved your son. But I wasn't there to try. And it eats at me to this day. You don't have to believe me. I just wanted you to know."

Hank didn't know what to do with the story. It gave him more insight. Answered some questions. Tied up a handful of loose ends. Shit…even made him feel for the guy a little. Only a little. But Connor had been right. Knowing the full story, putting Underwood through the pain of answering, hadn't changed anything. It had merely scrubbed a few nagging thoughts away, leaving a new emptiness in its place.

… _What now?_

With an exasperated sigh, Underwood stopped short.

"Without the right pump regulator, the rest of these repairs will be for nothing. We need that #8456w or this just won't work."

Hank scoured his brain for options. Rich Sullivan had been taking biocomponents and…more than likely…had used some of them in his facility. But he had also been very careful to store his collections with outside dealers to avoid suspicion. Plus, RK800s were rarer than rare. Only CyberLife would have access to their parts and biocomponents…and no one was even sure how they did business anymore. Chris had been right: if the right corners of the public knew that Connor needed the replacement part, they'd been up in arms to secure it for him. But that would take too much time and he'd risk his friend losing his memory altogether. Not to mention, Connor would never be happy knowing that strings had been pulled to get him something other androids were forced to do without.

Then it hit him. And he didn't like it.

"Kamski," he said. "The prick who founded CyberLife. He'd have access to whatever Connor needed…or at least, he used to. Surely he's got enough pull to get something done."

"Elijah Kamski?" Underwood asked. "You know Elijah Kamski?"

"Know is a strong word and I'm pretty sure the guy wouldn't remember me. But he might remember Connor. And he may be interested in keeping him alive."

"Oh?" Underwood replied.

"He's a game player. The psychological type. Wants to be the most important guy in the room. Connor made an impression on him during the android revolution and I would bet good money that if I said the right thing, he'd help him out."

"I'm not sure I'm following," Underwood said.

"You don't have to," Hank replied, standing. A wave of wooziness hit him and he remembered why his arm was throbbing for the first time since the garage. "Toss me that rag and write down the part number. I'm going to make a call and have someone keep an eye on you for the time being. I'll be back ASAP."

"And you're sure this is the best solution?" Underwood asked.

"It's the only one without barging through CyberLife's front door," Hank decided. "I'm going to pay Kamski a visit…see if I can't shake loose a pump regulator."

"That will take time," Underwood warned. "There's a chance…"

"Connor's dead," Hank replied. Saying it out loud made the emotion of it catch in his throat. He cleared it before continuing. "He's dead. You see him. He's either dead on that table or alive. I don't care how he comes back. I'll work with whatever I get." Hank sighed. "I know he'd do the same for me."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: JUNE 25th, 2039 - PM 1:49:02**

The last time Hank had seen Kamski's place it had been in winter, but in early summer, the streamlined, geometric exterior stood out perfectly against the greenery around it. Nestled into a spread of tailored grasses and fauna and with the Detroit River lapping audibly nearby, the building's severe edges contrasted the natural scene with beautiful precision. It was a modern marvel. Kamski's money had money.

As Hank made his way up the railed path, he went back through the angle he'd come up with on the drive over. The plan was loose at best: assess Kamski's mood, tell him what he'd come for, and let the bastard spin whatever denials he wanted. Based on their first interaction, it seemed to the police lieutenant that the more the kid talked, the more likely it would be that Hank could find a way to blow the right amount of smoke up his ass. On the other hand, there was a solid chance that no matter what was said, the founder of CyberLife would have a way of countering it. One way or another, Hank wasn't taking 'no' for an answer.

His hand shook as he reached for the doorbell and rang. The bullet from the garage had only grazed his arm, but the projectile had cut a clear line through the muscle of his bicep. It hadn't stopped bleeding since and the rag around the wound—tight as it was—had done little to staunch the flow. He'd need stiches. Later. A soft click sounded, and the entry opened.

 _Huh._

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Anderson. So nice to see you again. What can I do for you?"

The blonde. Chloe. She hadn't left. And apparently, she remembered him.

Uncannily, Chloe sported the same hair and dress as she had months earlier. She appeared serenely in the doorway, a pleasantly blank smile on her pristine features. Surprised—and more than a little uneasy—Hank put the massive list of questions that came to mind aside and focused up.

"I need to speak with Mr. Kamski," he explained. "It's urgent."

Chloe's features shifted apologetically.

"I'm sorry," she frowned. "Elijah isn't home now. I'd be happy to take a message for him."

 _Shit._

"Where is he?" he asked, trying to keep the demanding edge from his tone.

"I'm not at liberty to say," she replied. "I apologize." Glancing uncomfortably to the side, noticing the makeshift bandage on his arm, she repeated her offer. "What can I tell him for you when he gets back?"

Hank blew out an impatient sigh.

"I don't have time for a message. I need to speak to him now. It's about Connor. I don't have all day."

"Connor?" That seemed to strike a chord with her. The expressionless calm of her face faltered.

"Yes, ma'am," Hank nodded, noting the shift. "He was damaged earlier today and I'm trying to put him back together."

"I see," she mused, half to herself. Blinking, she turned her doe-like gaze back to Hank. "…I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm looking for a biocomponent. It's—pretty specific," Hank explained, pulling the crumpled note Underwood had scribbled on from his jacket pocket. "A thirium pump regulator. An #8456w." Studying her face, Hank watched for any signs of admission. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could find one of these, would you?"

Chloe's brow knotted. Smoothed.

"It's not a number I'm personally familiar with," she replied, guilt subtly coloring her hesitation. "It may no longer be in circulation."

"I'm guessing it isn't," Hank agreed. "But that's what I need."

The android's lower lip disappeared behind perfect synthetic teeth.

"I wish you the best of luck," she offered genuinely.

A dead end.

"Yeah. I'm sure you do," Hank muttered.

Now what? Chloe was mute on the subject. Kamski was MIA. CyberLife wanted Connor silenced so—no help there. The public couldn't be mobilized fast enough. And time…time just kept ticking away. There had to be another option. But—what if there wasn't?

"Let Kamski know that I want a word with him. Tell him to contact the police department."

Without bothering to wait for a reply, Hank headed back towards his car.

"Mr. Anderson," Chloe called. Hank turned. She was outside now, standing in the pathway. Hesitantly, she glanced overhead—bare feet shifting ever so slightly as she scanned her surroundings. Absently, Hank wondered if she'd ever been outside the house before—or if she was being monitored. Her gaze met his once more, uncertain. Almost remorseful. Why, Hank couldn't fathom, but there was clearly more to her story than he had time to dissect. He had half a mind to investigate it later, though.

 _" **She's really pretty…"**_

 _…Connor._

"There is a protest blocking the access bridge of CyberLife Tower today. The media say Markus is the organizer. If anyone can help you, it would be him."

 _Markus. Of course!_ Connor's list of friends and allies could fit on one hand. _Why didn't I think of him before?_

"Thank you," Hank said, a half-grin cementing his gratitude. Chloe returned the gesture with her own private smile.

"Meeting Connor was—a unique experience," she replied, choosing her words carefully. "I hope you're able to find what you're looking for."  
_

Hank had never met Markus personally. Connor, of course, had told him all about the deviant leader who had changed his mind, but their paths had never crossed. Like everyone else, the police lieutenant had kept track of the media coverage regarding the android activist, but beyond that…? Hank didn't have a sounding board as to who Markus was.

To Hank, he seemed larger than life—a distant figure on the stage of what was quickly becoming history. But Connor considered him a friend…and he didn't have many of those. If Markus had seen past the 'deviant hunter' label of the android sent to neutralize him surely, he was a nice enough guy. Right? Surely.

The Oldsmobile rolled to a stop in front of a massive gathering—androids and humans alike. Signs, banners, and megaphones seemed to be the name of the game. The picket line stretched across the entrance to the access bridge of CyberLife Tower. No one was going in. No one was coming out. Not until their message was heard.

"No one should have to question whether or not they have the legal right to a family," a voice was railing somewhere in the distance. Hank couldn't tell how far away the speaker stood. The crowd pressed together like a vice. He'd have to force his way through. "Manufacturing androids for profit is the same as being forced to pay for the privilege of life. We fought for the right to be free. Now we ask for the right to live as our neighbors, friends, and fellow humans. CyberLife…and all its factories…must be turned over to our people to secure our future. I've said it before—humans gave us life. Heard us when we asked for freedom. And now I'm asking you to join us. Become a part of something greater. Help us put an end to the corruption. Stand by us—and together, we can ensure a brighter tomorrow for both of our future generations."

The masses responded in a kaleidoscope of sound. Cheering. Clapping. Hissing. Booing. Calls for the end of CyberLife. Demands for the silencing of the androids' message. Hank didn't give a shit about any of it. He needed to get to the front of the crowd. Police officers, tasked with keeping an eye on the situation, loitered on the perimeters. Maybe he could…no. He couldn't pull his badge here, not outside of an official assignment—tempting as it may have been. So, he opted for the old-fashioned way.

"Out of my way! Move it!"

Shouldering into the throng of spectators, Hank shoved and jockeyed his way through the bodies blocking his path. Swinging elbows, he wedged, skirted, and forced himself forward. His aching arm protested louder than the sign-holders around him, but he ignored the injury and pressed on. Up ahead, the crowd thinned—revealing a platform. Atop it stood several androids he recognized from the news.

And Markus.

"Move!" he ordered, pushing aside a particularly wiry young man and stepping on a plastic foot.

Having finished his speech, Markus turned and headed towards the back of the platform. Several androids, presumably guards, moved to escort him.

 _Don't you fucking move. Leave and I swear to God…._

"Markus! –Markus!"

It was no use. The crowd drowned out anything he tried to say. He had to get to the back of the platform—and fast. At the rate Hank was going, the android revolutionary would be long gone by the time he bulldozed through. There was no telling where Markus would be whisked off to next. He'd have to search again…start at square one. That meant throwing in the towel. And he couldn't. Not when he was so close.

"Hey! You! Yeah, you!" Hank shouted, finally stumbling to the edge of the platform. A male android stood eying the surrounding protestors. When he spotted Hank, worry clouded his face.

"Stand back, sir," he called down.

He had to sound crazy, Hank knew. But desperate times called for desperate measure.

"I need to talk to Markus! It's an emergency!"

"Sir, please step away."

"You're Simon, right?" Hank shouted up at him, the noise deafening. Connor had mentioned Markus' entourage on several occasions. Simon was the blonde. Cautious. Careful. Wanted everyone out safe. The android in question hesitated.

 _Perfect._

"It's about Connor. Please! I need to talk to Markus."

The android blinked.

"Connor?"

"You know—tall, slim kid? Dark headed? Sent by CyberLife?"

Simon, flustered, shook his head. "Yes, yes, I know him—what are you talking about?"

"Connor's dead," Hank called out. "And I'm trying to fix that. I think Markus can help me!"

The gravity of the news seemed to resonate with Simon. He glanced over his shoulder at Markus, then at Hank, then back to Markus. Anxiety riddled his furtive features.

"Come around to the back of the stage," he yelled out to the lieutenant. "And wait there. –What's your name?"

"Lieutenant Anderson," Hank replied, relieved. Finally. Some headway.

As instructed, Hank maneuvered around the spacious platform and past several androids clearly on security detail. He stood at the back of the far-left corner and waited. Simon crossed to the stairs Markus was descending and fell in step beside him. There was a brief exchange. Markus stopped short. Scowled. Said something. Spotted Hank. The two headed in his direction.

 _This had better work._

"You're Lieutenant Anderson," the android leader said, slowing. Offering a hand. "The infamous Hank."

"In the flesh," Hank nodded, taking Markus up on the handshake. "I'm sorry to have to meet you this way, but I didn't know where else to go."

"So, it's true," Markus replied, somber.

"Afraid so."

Markus inhaled deeply, then let out a steady sigh. Hank couldn't tell if the android was angry or sad. He decided on somewhere in between.

"How did it happen?" he asked.

"He was working with the DPD on a string of android murders. I'm sure you're filled in."

"I have friends at the police department."

"Nathan," Hank guessed. Markus nodded. Figured. He continued, "I can't go into details—it's still an open investigation. Long story short, he was shot. Destroyed his thirium pump regulator."  
Simon grimaced.

"That's terrible," Markus replied, disbelief and pain warring on his fine features.

"I need a new one. It's unique to Connor's model and his can't be rebuilt in the state it's in. You of all people know how impossible CyberLife can be, but in Connor's case—well, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be any skin off the company's ass if he stayed dead."

Markus cast a pointed glare at the Tower marring the distant skyline.

"Well, the company doesn't control everything," he said decidedly.

"It's one of these," Hank explained, taking Underwood's note from his jacket and handing it to Markus. "I have no clue how to track one down, but I figured you might know where to start."

Markus took one look at the part number and shook his head.

"No, I don't," he admitted. "But we'll find someone who does. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?"

"I tried Kamski. The guy's MIA."

Intelligent blue and green eyes narrowed, then brightened as a thought struck him.

"No," Markus explained. "I bet I know where he is."

"Well, where?" Hank insisted.

"A private art exhibition downtown," Markus explained. He glanced at Simon knowingly. "Carl's exhibition."

"Who the hell is Carl?" Hank retorted.

"An old friend," Markus replied cryptically, a plan clearly formulating in his mind. He turned his attention back to the bewildered lieutenant. "He's someone I consider family. He's an influential artist and he's on our side. I know he'll help if he can."

"Connor needs the part as soon as we can get it," Hank insisted, urgent. "…His memory's resetting."

Markus' colorful eyes widened in disbelief.

"What?"

"…Yeah."

"What do you mean, 'resetting?' He's already shut down, right?"

"I don't understand the details, but the tech keeping an eye on him says CyberLife put some sort of memory flush in his programming. He's tried overriding it, but nothing's worked so far."

"Why didn't you lead with that?" Markus demanded. Wasting no time waiting for a reply, he shook his head and finished his thought over his shoulder as he walked away. "I'm calling him now. Don't worry. I'll figure something out."

Judging by the concerned purpose in his pace, Hank knew that Markus would certainly give it his best try.

But it'll be too late by then, Hank thought to himself.

Hank gave Simon the diagnostic facility's address and thanked him for his help. He almost didn't remember getting back to the Oldsmobile. He just…found himself suddenly in the driver's seat ambling towards the main road once more. It was out of his hands now. There was nothing more he could do.

Old anxieties reared their ugly head.

"Should'a done more," he said out loud to a Connor that was no longer in the passenger's seat. To the little boy he could no longer see in the rearview mirror. "I don't know how, but I should've. Couldn't help you. One minute you're here and the next…" The words came one after another as he processed in the silence of the car. He shook his head. "Why is it that every time it counts—I miss the mark? School? No problem. The academy? A breeze. Youngest fucking lieutenant in Detroit and for what? Nothing."

He was on the verge of defeat.

Something about the low hum of the engine, the steady rumble of passing traffic, and the contained silence of the cab of the car gave him the space and privacy he'd been lacking since the morning's incident. Reality hit him hard, sinking in deep. Images surfaced one by one unbidden.

Thirium pooling.

Blue lacing Hank's crimson blood on Connor's cheek.

The shuddering.

The struggling respirations. Emulations or not, he didn't fucking care.

The wild resignation in Connor's face.

 _…And the last thing he did was worry about me._

With a dull ache in his chest, it dawned on Hank that in his final moments, Connor had demonstrated the same instinct he'd shown at Kamski's place. He'd reached beyond himself…put himself in the shoes of his friend. Realized, with the limited time left to him, that his death meant that Hank would be, for all intents and purposes, alone once more. That his friend would be hurt by the void left where his partner had been. That Hank would reach out to distraction and forgetfulness to bury and not feel. And instead of voicing his own wants or fears, Connor had chosen to placate Hank's. To be there for him.

He'd chosen empathy.

Gritting his teeth, Hank bit back the unruly grief rolling over him. Markus or no Markus, the odds were stacked against getting the needed part. He hated it…he fucking hated it. As things stood, Connor was dead. Nothing but empty plastic on a table. Reality laid the logic out in front of him: Markus would have to contact this Carl guy, who would have to convince Kamski to help, and if, by some miracle, Kamski agreed, he'd have to contact CyberLife…and IF he had enough say-so to actually get the biocomponent sent to the diagnostic facility, it would take too long. Too fucking long. And the truth was almost unbearable.

"Fuck you, Connor," he ground out, glaring at the road ahead. Moisture lined his eyes and he sniffed, swiping his reddened nose. Hank hissed in an injured breath. Let it go. "Fuck you."

"Well?"

Underwood was seated as Hank entered the diagnostic room, but quickly stood to his feet. A sheet now covered Connor's body from the shoulders down. The blue blood on his chin had evaporated—or Underwood had wiped the offensive reminder away. Hank couldn't be sure which. The diligent tech had clearly come to the end of his talents some time ago and had been waiting for the next step to arrive. It hadn't.

"Kamski was a bust. Markus pulled some strings," Hank announced, collapsing into the chair he'd previously occupied.

"Wait—did you say Markus? As in, THE Markus?" Underwood asked, resuming his own seat across from the lieutenant.

"The one and only."

"So…you have it."

Hank glared over at the man, but most of his fire was gone.

"I don't."

Underwood slumped back in his seat, nodding—contemplating—nodding again.

"I see."

Hank had to know. Sick as it made him, he had to see for himself. With obvious reservation, he ventured a glance at the reset readout.

 **DATA RESET / / 72%**

He hung his head, helpless.

There was nothing he could do but wait.

Again.

And wait he did.

The police arrived to scour the diagnostic facility for evidence—and to shut it down until further notice. Only urgent cases were allowed to remain. The majority of the staff were questioned and sent home. The rest were monitored closely. For half-an-hour, the center was chaos. Officers, techs, admission assistants, and patients bustled in or out of the building. Hank didn't move. He stayed by Connor's side—and kept an eye on Underwood.

"You're going to need stitches," Underwood announced after a while, suddenly breaking the silence. "You're bleeding."

"I'll deal with it later," Hank shot down.

Underwood leveled him with a practiced physician's stare. "It's going to get infected if it isn't already. You'll be no use to anyone that way. It will only take a second."

"I told you, I'll deal with it later," Hank snapped back.

"Alright, play stubborn," Underwood retorted, standing. He crossed to a metallic supply case and opened it, pulling a pair of gloves on and snapping them in place. Hank scowled.

"What the hell are you doing?" he griped.

"Fixing that arm," Underwood replied with even coolness. "It's a matter of professional integrity."

"Don't you dare come near me," Hank growled, eyeing the former surgeon with a look that could've killed. "Touch me and—."

"You'll what, bleed to death?"

Hank moved to get to his feet, but the sudden motion sent a wave of nauseating dizziness over him. Clammy, cold sweat speckled his neck and chest. Underwood, obviously correct, shook his head. He moved around the table and crossed to the police lieutenant with what looked like a glorified fishing line complete with hook in hand.

"Sit still. This will hurt."

And it did. OH, it did. But, true to his word, Underwood's quick fix was wrapped up in a matter of moments. After a string of verbal unpleasantries, the wound was cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. The heated stinging gradually abated. And when Hank could relax enough to unclench his jaw, he found it within himself to manage a sullen, begrudging silence.

"Mr. Underwood."

Hank started. He hadn't heard the visitor come in, but instantly, he recognized the attending tech that had patched Connor's scuff a few days before.

"Yes, Marcy?" Underwood asked.

"A drone just delivered this for your patient. I believe it's a part order."

Hank's heart skipped a beat.

Both Underwood and Anderson were out of their seats in an instant. Lightheaded, Hank steadied himself on the diagnostic table, but Stephen was already opening the white and blue packaging of a box labeled CYBERLIFE. Hank watched him reach inside and pull out a weighted, cylindrical biocomponent. A brilliant smile lit up the human technician's face.

"This is it!"

Relief nearly took Hank's knees out from under him.

Markus had come through.

Hastily, Underwood crossed to the opposite side of the table and removed the sheet from Connor's body. He fired up several machines and blue blood began slowly flowing in several tubes from filters to Connor's biocomponents. Fitted with new abdominal plating, the android appeared completely whole minus the empty slot for the regulator. Delicately, Underwood centered the component in the awaiting slot. He met Hank's expectant gaze.

"I can't promise this will work," he warned cautiously.

"Do it," Hank ordered.

The thirium pump regulator connected with a click. Instantly, the various diagnostic readings jumped to life. The android's body jolted.

"Don't be alarmed," Underwood explained with bated breath. "His system's trying to come back online."

Hank's heart raced. Fear and hope twisted his stomach in knots.

"Come on, Connor," he urged beneath his breath. "Come on."

Thirium coursed in steady pulses from the filtration system the android was attached to. Various activity measurements spiked in unison. An indicator beeped somewhere behind Underwood and he shut off the infusion, disconnecting and removing the tubing. The regulator's ring began to glow.

Hank held his breath. This was it.

 _Come on, son. You can do it._

…The LED on Connor's temple cycled red.

 _Yes!_

Then yellow.

 _Come on!_

Then—blue. Steady, vibrant blue.

"Oh, beautiful!" Underwood exclaimed, laughing. "That's exactly what we wanted!"

Hank audibly let go of the breath he'd been holding.

"Holy shit," he enthused, dazed. "Is he…?"

"He's back," Underwood nodded emphatically.

Hank took Connor's colorless hand in both of his own and leaned close. He wanted to be visible the first time his friend opened his eyes. He wanted him to know he wasn't alone…wanted to show what he'd failed to time and again since the android had returned from D.C. stumbling over boxes in his garage…

…that Connor had become the most important person in his life.

…that he owed his friend his life several times over.

…that he would always be there for him.

…and that-.

 _Oh, no._

The one readout Hank had failed to check caught his attention, stopping him cold.

 **DATA RESET / 97 %**

Warm, brown eyes blinked open.

Stared at the ceiling.

Settled on Hank.

"Connor," Hank greeted somberly, placing a gentle hand behind his friend's head. "Oh, thank God."

The android blinked.

Hank swallowed.

"Can you hear me alright?" he asked tentatively.

No response.

"Connor?"

Vacant eyes stared up at the lieutenant, benignly scanning his face. Then, as if losing interest, the android's gaze returned to the ceiling once more.

"Connor?" Hank pressed. He smoothed his fingers through his synthesized hair. "Hey."

Underwood removed his gloves with a bitter sigh.

 _No._

Hank squeezed Connor's hand so tightly that a human hand would have lost circulation.

"Connor!" he pleaded. "Can you hear me?"

Gravely, Underwood leaned into his patient's line of sight. The synthetic, brown eyes shifted to his technician's apologetic ones.

"RK800, register your name."

Instantly, Connor's gaze went still. Waiting.

 _DAMN IT,_ Hank railed inwardly, grimacing as he turned his head away. _Jesus._

Underwood laid a hand on Hank's shoulder.

"You need to be the one to tell him," he suggested gently.

Hank shut his eyes against the urge to lose his composure. He turned back to the empty gaze waiting for him.

 _" **I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant."**_

Hank gritted his teeth.

 _" **Your partner… Your buddy to drink with…"**_

Bit his lip.

 _" **Or just a machine. Designed to accomplish a task."**_

The familiar face staring up at Underwood was empty now. A blank slate. It thought it was a program…a prototype built to serve humans without question. It didn't remember what it felt like to discover emotion, to be alive. Its purpose was to fulfill assignments and complete missions, no matter the risk to itself. It was a machine. Nothing more.

For now.

"Connor."

Connor turned, recognition software imprinting on Hank's face.

"My name is Connor."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19** : AUGUST 17th, 2039 - PM 07:52:40

Sunlight glinted off the Oldsmobile's side mirror. Its owner sat on the hood, arms idly folded, nodding in conversation. A light breeze toyed at the longer tufts of hair tickling his forehead. He wasn't quite used to the short cut yet. After all, he'd let himself go for almost four years. He'd kept the beard. He wasn't getting any younger and a baby face just didn't suit him anymore.

Underwood stood on his front porch making small talk. He'd found another job at a licensed facility and was saying something about the new position he'd accepted. Hank, in all honesty, had tuned out. He was still mulling over their earlier discussion.

Stephen must have sensed the distracted thoughts of the police lieutenant and paused. He leaned on the porch railing, arms crossed casually. Neither party was entirely comfortable around the other, but necessity had merged their paths. He studied the other man in silence.

"He's progressing, Mr. Anderson," Underwood said in an obvious attempt at reassurance. "The last diagnostic showed that at least 11% of his memories have repaired themselves."

Hank nodded, somber. "Only eighty-six more to go," he replied.

"CyberLife's storage management system for Connor's model was something else," Stephen mused. "It's caused him a significant amount of grief now that he's no longer tied into the company's network."

"Meaning?" Hank asked.

"Well, based on what you've told me, his memory was set to upload to some sort of database in the event of deactivation. The company would simply supply a new RK800 with the previous Connor's data. Ever since he's recalled his deviancy, he's mentioned an emergency exit of sorts in his programming that officially cut off access to CyberLife's internal network. So, in essence—what we're dealing with is the equivalent of an interrupted file transfer. When your friend shut down, his memory tried to upload to a location that no longer exists…causing a significant amount of corruption."

"Which is why he's pieced together a few things here and there," Hank surmised.

"Exactly," Stephen agreed. "According to the results of the diagnostic, his memories are technically still intact. They've just been so highly compressed and removed to such a remote location in his mind palace that his previous life isn't registering."

Hank pushed off the hood, standing. Twisting a kink out of his back.

"Give him time. He wasn't reprogrammed, just reset. And since he can't report to CyberLife **and** he doesn't have an assignment **and** he's a deviant dealing with a blank memory landscape, he's probably going a little stir crazy…whether he realizes it or not."

"Sure, sure."

"He mentioned that you showed him around the police station a few weeks ago," Stephen suggested. "Small tasks like that might go a long way."

"That's just it," Hank said. "Busted or not, Connor's got enough mind to have one of his own."

"Is he being combative?" Stephen asked, the concern of a researcher in his tone.

"No, nothing like that," Hank replied, a little resigned. "He left."

Underwood frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He said he needed to find out who he was outside of who he used to be," Hank explained. "The police station was the last place I saw him."

"But, that's—he came by this week to check his progress," Stephen stammered. "He didn't say anything."

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried, but Markus' people are keeping tabs on him," Hank replied.

"He really left?" Underwood pressed.

"Yep. I thought it might be a good idea to show him around some of the old haunts, you know? Jog his memory. But he doesn't remember anything from the investigation. I think he figured I was pressuring him."

Underwood nodded, understanding.

"I'm sorry about that," he said. "He's made great strides, but…it may not be in a direction that's advantageous for you. He's lucky to have such good friends," he said gently.

Hank nodded privately, lost in his own thoughts. Finally, he lifted a hand in farewell and headed for the driver's side door. He'd learned…well, not much, unfortunately. Nothing that he didn't already suspect. Nothing he hadn't heard before. Back to limbo it was.

"Mr. Anderson?"

Hank paused. "Yeah?"

"Why didn't you just email me? Or call? Why did you decide to stop by my house? I'm more willing to testify against Rich now that he's out of the hospital—and you have the surviving android victim's testimony to go on."

"Sure," Hank concurred.

"So, if you don't mind my asking…why the visit? I could have filled you in on Connor's diagnostic results without you having to make an extra trip."

Why indeed.

"To be honest with you, Stephen," Hank explained, turning to face the former surgeon, hands in his pockets, "I wanted to say something. Face to face."

Underwood visibly tensed. "Oh?"

"I wasted a lot of time on you," Hank said evenly. "Hating you. I let you take years off my life. And when I heard you were getting out early, I wanted to do something…find some way to see to it that you never saw the outside of a prison again."

Stephen nodded, uncertain.

"Connor spotted something was off the second he came back from Washington," Hank explained. "He caught me going through old case files—your files. Cole's case. And he kept pushing me to tell him what I was up to, but I shut him down. At the time, I didn't know what I was doing. I just wanted something to make sense. Deep down, I think I was hoping to find something a jury hadn't. I don't know what I thought I'd dig up. I just wanted you out of my life."

The wind picked up once more, toying with Hank's newly cropped hair.

"But Connor called me out, told me the truth in a way no one else had the courage to. He said that Cole's accident was just that—an accident. Something that no one wanted to happen. Something I was letting control my future." Hank paused at the memory. "He told me that the only person who could change my perspective was me. And he was right about that. I should've listened sooner."

Hank pulled the driver's door open, pausing to lean on the doorframe.

"We're not friends," he told Stephen bluntly. "I don't like you. You don't like me. Outside of what happened to my son and what you've done for Connor, we're strangers. What you did that night was wrong and nothing will ever change my mind about it. But Cole died because of a car accident. I've made my peace with that."

Stephen nodded, silent. The gravity of Hank's admission clearly wasn't lost on him. Without another word, Hank climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. He wouldn't call the former surgeon forgiven—no, not quite. There were some things that were outside of the realm of possibility. But it was the closest he could come to it. Little by little, he was moving forward.

Without Cole.

And Connor.

_ _PM 08:31:41_ _

A pit stop at the Chicken Feed was called for. Hank pulled onto the side of the road and parked his car just before dark. Dusk cast brilliant shades of orange, purple, and pink across the fading sky. Hank squinted up at the colorful array. It was simple. Beautiful. He realized hadn't bothered looking up in a while.

Gary spotted him before he'd crossed the street and waved. Habits helped. A familiar face, the same burger. The usual. It made life seem normal when other bits and pieces were fraying at the seams.

"I barely recognized you," Gary called, eyeing the haircut. "Looking sharp, officer."

"Thanks, Gary," Hank replied. "I figured I was about due."

"If you say so," he replied, slapping a patty on the grill. "You almost look like a suit now. Not planning on cleaning up your act any time soon, are you?"

"I'm too busy for that shit," Hank smirked. While he was waiting, Hank idly watched the golf tournament playing on the food truck's TV. He hadn't seen Gary in a hot second, not with the Android Crimes Task Force gaining the traction it had. The diagnostic clinic's bust had caused an understandable amount of uproar from the surrounding community. Both Clive Tomlin and Rich Sullivan were being tried for a laundry list of crimes against androids…including kidnapping, resale, illegal parts distribution, and murder. Tomlin had been locked away awaiting a trial date announcement. Sullivan, unfortunately, had posted bail.

"While you're here, would you mind doing me a favor?" Gary asked over the sizzling grill.

"What's that?" Hank asked. "Would you get that guy out of here? He's been hanging around since noon and I can't shake him loose."

Hank followed Gary's pointed spatula and stopped short.

Connor.

"You okay?" Gary asked, pulling Hank from his thoughts.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Hank assured him. "I'll see what the problem is."

"Burger's on the house then," Gary called.

"Like you were gonna make me pay in the first place," Hank shot back.

It was definitely Connor. He'd ditched the clothes Hank had scrounged up for him and was sporting a black zip-up hoodie and grey jeans. His hair looked different too…a little less kept. But it was him, alone at one of the scattered standing tables beside the food truck. Hank would know that lanky, awkward frame anywhere.

After the incident, things had proven to be difficult at best, but the police lieutenant had made it his mission to see to it that Connor was put back on his feet again. Hank had brought Connor home with him, explained that he was his former partner with the DPD and that the android had shut down after a serious gunshot injury sustained in the line of duty. Connor had accepted the facts like any programmed unit would have—with clarity…and absolutely no emotion. Over the following week, with Hank's constant attention and Underwood's periodic supervision, Connor had regained all his motor and cognitive functions. With expert precision, he could run, jump, fight, and hold various forms of conversation in over a thousand languages without hesitation. He could accomplish tasks, both overt and detailed, at the drop of a hat. He showed promising signs of optimization. But he remained a machine.

Hank had done everything he could to open Connor's mind. He'd taken him on patrol throughout the city. He'd given Connor the responsibility of looking after Sumo. He'd included the android in his decisions…even basic choices like what to have for lunch. He'd started oversharing any thought that came to mind. Played card games. Watched TV. Had Connor wash the Oldsmobile with him. Hell, he'd even reintroduced him to Markus and the Jericho crew. Hank had done anything and everything he could possibly think of to trigger his former partner's memories. Deviancy had begun creeping its slow way back into Connor's psyche. Things had been looking up. And after almost a month of small steps forward, Connor had asked Hank a very simple question…one that had thrown a wrench in the entire process.

"If I'm free to decide who and what I am…why are you my master?"

...Not the kind of response Hank had been hoping for.

Hank had assured Connor that he wasn't anything of the sort—that he was a friend. They had been partners…and all he wanted was to help Connor remember his life before the shooting. Technically, he explained, Connor was capable of starting his own life at any time, but Hank had taken him back to his home to give him a familiar place to recover. And then the second question hit.

"And what if I don't remember? Am I still obligated to stay with you?"

Like a fucking hostage.

"You're my friend, Connor," Hank had told him, swallowing the sting. He hadn't considered the possibility that the kid might choose to start a new life without him. "If you don't remember anything else, remember that. Whatever you want to do, it's your decision."

He'd taken Connor to visit the police station the next day. He'd shown him his desk, tried reintroducing him to Captain Fowler, given him the full tour and demonstrated basic police procedure. It'd been a full afternoon. But that night, as Hank was climbing into his car to head home, Connor had turned and walked away. Without so much as a goodbye.

"Connor?" Hank called, approaching cautiously.

The android glanced up. Recognition dawned. His jaw clenched.

Hank joined him at the standing table. He looked…haggard, Hank thought—if an android could look haggard. Dirt smudged his face and hands. His hoodie had seen better days. And everywhere he glanced, he seemed to be checking for a quick exit.

The kid looked lost.

"Mr. Anderson," he said hesitantly. "I didn't know you were here."

 _Mr. Anderson?_

"I come here all the time," Hank replied. He nodded towards the chef at the grill. "Gary's a friend."

"Oh," was the only reply.

It was so good to see Connor in one piece…so damn good to know he was alright. But Hank played it cool, hoping not to spook the wayward android. Studying him in silence, the police lieutenant leaned idly against the table. There was a good chance he wouldn't see the kid again if he slipped away a second time. He had to make it count.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" he asked. "You know this is a food truck, right?"

"I know," Connor replied. His troubled gaze dropped to the metallic lining of the tabletop.

Hank waited, patient.

"I'm…not sure why I'm here," he admitted finally. "I remembered this place and I wanted to have a look around, but I couldn't find any significant reason why it came to mind." He closed his eyes, simulated a defeated sigh. Opened them once more. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Mm," Hank nodded, knowing otherwise.

Connor's head tilted sharply to one side…a gesture Hank had long since learned meant the android was frustrated. Wincing, Connor shook his head.

"Something's wrong," he ground out. "I'm not who I'm supposed to be."

"What do you mean?" Hank asked, taking a small step closer.

"I don't know," Connor replied, brow furrowed, refusing to meet Hank's eyes. "I know you think I'm a friend of yours…somebody you lost. But I don't know you and I don't know who that person was."

Hank swallowed hard.

"Markus tells me I'm one of the leaders of the deviant movement—that I participated in the android revolution. He thinks of me as a friend too. But I only remember scattered pieces of what he's talking about. And the Zen garden."

"Zen garden?" Hank asked. "You mean the 'Amanda' thing?"

Connor blinked.

"Amanda," he mused, frowning. Clearly, he'd only just remembered the problematic bit of software imitating Elijah Kamski's teacher. He nodded slowly. "…Yes, that."

"Captain Fowler remembers me as a credit to the Detroit Police Department. Android officers at the precinct thanked me for setting them free. Someone on the street this morning called me a murderer. I saw footage of a meeting I had with the president of the United States."

The facts tumbled out one after another as Connor tried to make sense of the mess of information. He grimaced.

"Everyone is expecting me to be someone I don't know. And everyone seems to have a different opinion of who that was." Hank eyed Connor out of the corner of his eye. The never-ending list of what he wanted to say grew steadily weightier, but he needed to listen here. Not explain. That had been his earlier mistake.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be," Connor continued. "Who I was…seems to have been an important person. But I'm not sure I want to be him. I'm not sure of anything. There are no instructions, no directives. Just a blank space I'm supposed to interface with…and create something from nothing. It doesn't make any sense." Connor looked up, finally catching Hank's sympathetic gaze.

He was scared.

"I don't know what to do."

A figure leaned out of the food truck's hatch.

"Order's ready," Gary called.

"Hold that thought," Hank shouted back. Gary waved him off and disappeared once more into the belly of the truck.

Hank thought over his options. He wanted to grab his former partner, stuff him into the back seat, and take him home. He wanted to tell him from start to finish what it meant to be 'Connor'…and all the great things and acts of kindness that made him what he'd been. He wanted to shake the memories loose. He wanted him to remember. But if he didn't remember…if Connor never recalled his previous memories…he still had his whole life ahead of him. The past was important-to Hank. In it resided the friend he'd come to see as a member of the family. But to Connor, to this new Connor, all he wanted was a direction. A sense of purpose. Before, Hank would have been sick with panic at the prospect of losing that person forever—and he'd be lying to himself now if the thought didn't cut him to the quick. But, bit by bit, he was learning to let go. And he wondered—maybe the kindest thing for this version of his friend…was doing just that.

Letting him go.

Pain swelled in his chest.

 _If I can't bring him back_ , Hank thought to himself, _the least I can do is point him in a good direction._

"You know something," Hank began, idly shifting weight onto his other foot. "Most days I don't know what to do. Sometimes I wonder if any of this makes sense." He met Connor's uneasy glance with a steady one of his own. "I don't know why this happened to you. I don't know why you had to shut down. But it happened. And past or no past, you're strong enough to move on from this."

To Hank's surprise, Connor was listening.

"You're a smart kid," he continued. "The smartest CyberLife ever put together. But you're more than all the shit they stuffed into your programming. You're good. Sincere. And no matter what you land on, you're going to give it everything you've got."

"Hank!" Gary griped once more from the hatch.

"For fuck's sake, Gary, give me a second!" Hank snapped back. Gary, grumbling to himself, disappeared once more.

Hank offered Connor a knowing smile. He was sad. He'd never look back and not be. But he was keeping a promise to an old friend.

He wasn't about to stop.

"You're someone to be proud of, Connor," he said, laying a warm hand on his shoulder. "I mean that."

With all the will he could muster, Hank took one last, long look at the face of his partner. The fucking android sent by CyberLife. His ballast point. The Connor staring back at him had made it clear that he wanted to be left alone. It was like the old adage said, if you really care about something, you set it free...right?

So, he let him go.

"By the way," he called over his shoulder as he headed to collect his food. He pulled up short. Smirked. "Just because you don't remember me doesn't mean we're not friends."

Connor stared after him, then let his listless gaze drift down to the tabletop once more.

Hank collected his meal from the impatient Gary and fished out his wallet, doing his best not to look back.

"Here," he griped, tossing a generous tip on the truck's counter. "Hold your fucking horses next time."

"Your food's getting cold, old man," Gary quipped back. He took the tip with a nod. "Have a good one."

Hank reached to grab the burger bag but managed just the wrong angle. Loose change spilled out of his open wallet, clinking all over the sidewalk. An old receipt fluttered away down the street and a toothpick rolled under the food truck.

"Ah, shit," Hank griped. For the most part, the coins consisted of a scattering of pennies, so he ignored them and focused on the good ones. Kneeling, he gathered up three dimes, a nickel, and a quarter, cursing his bad back as he righted himself.

 _I'm gonna throw out my back for sixty fucking cents._

"Thanks, Gary," he sighed, finally retrieving his dinner. "Same time next week."

As he walked away, Hank pocketed his wallet and began stuffing the loose change in after it. Absently, it eyed the final coin in his hand. The quarter. It was brand new, still had that minted shine to it. A thought struck him…a last call of sorts.

He'd never been great with goodbyes anyway.

"Hey Connor!"

The android's slate face lifted.

"Catch!"

Hank tossed the coin. On instinct, Connor's hand shot out and snatched the tiny projectile in midair. Between his fore and middle finger.

 _Show off._

A light bulb went on somewhere in Connor's mind. His stooping posture straightened as he studied the coin quizzically. He shot a look at Hank, struggling. Then, turned away.

…It'd been worth a shot.

"Take care of yourself," Hank smirked sadly. "Alright?"

_ _AM 03:03:14_ _

It was 3AM.

Hank was wide awake.

And somebody was knocking on his bedroom window.

Alert and ready, Hank felt for the bedside table and quietly pulled open the drawer. He removed his pistol and cocked it as he slid from the blankets, putting his back to the wall next to the window. Deftly, he tilted his head to the side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the asshole behind the blinds. No one was there.

"Fucking kids," Hank growled, releasing the hammer's tension and unloading the unnecessary shot.

 **KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK**

Instantly, Sumo began baying from the kitchen. The culprit, it seemed, had moved and was banging unceremoniously on the front door. With a muttered curse, Hank set the gun on his side table and trekked from his bedroom to the living room. His porch light, he realized, had been turned off.

"Alright, you little shit," Hank grumbled beneath his breath. "How's this?"

He flicked on the outside light just as another round of knocking sounded from the door.

 **KNOCK-KNOCK…**

The light flickered on. Hank expected the sound of scuttling feet, but he didn't hear anything.

… **KNOCK**

 _What the fuck…?_

Bristling, Hank unlocked the door and swung it open. The list of abuses Hank had been readying died instantly.

Connor stood on the porch, a look of such discomfort and determination on his face that Hank wasn't sure which expression to pick. He started to ask what the matter was, but Connor held up a hand.

"I saw something," the android announced. "You tossed me that coin and I saw an elevator."

Hope threatened to pick up Hank's heart rate and run with it. He waited. Listened.

"It opened into a high-rise suite and I saw another elevator…at CyberLife Tower. There were two dead guards at my feet. Then a third—opening into an abandoned apartment. The last one was at Stratford Tower."

Connor's jaw clenched. He seemed to unpackage each image with considerable difficulty, but he pressed on. His LED blinked on a consistent loop of red and yellow. When he looked at Hank, he appeared more grounded than Anderson had seen in months.

"You were there," he described. "You took my coin away."

Hank chuckled, anxious and tickled. "Sure did."

"I saw you in that elevator…and then you were just—there. At Jimmy's Bar. Ortiz's house. In your Oldsmobile, an alleyway, the food truck, a park bench, this house. And in a parking garage."

Hank couldn't help but smile. Like he'd said before…someone to be proud of.

"I still don't remember everything," Connor cautioned. "And not all of it makes sense. But…your name is Lieutenant Hank Anderson. You were born and raised in Detroit and became the youngest officer to make lieutenant in the city. You don't care about your calorie intake and you're particularly obstinate when you're drunk."

Again, Hank chuckled.

"You lost your son in a car accident a few years ago," Connor recited somberly. "And you were assigned a string of homicides involving android victims. We worked that case together. We…we were friends."

Hank nodded.

"There was a shooting," Connor concluded. He paused, distress tying to an image. "You were going to die. There was a gun and you were going to—."

Pulling the kid forward, Hank wrapped his arms warmly around Connor. As if uncertain, Connor remained rigid, arms at his sides. The older man didn't care. Hank held the android tight, resting a gentle hand at the back of his head. Gradually, Connor's angular shoulders relaxed. He reached tentatively around and returned the fond embrace.

"I missed you, Connor," Hank smiled, pulling away to rest his hands on his friend's shoulders. "It's good to have you back."

Despite himself, Connor answered with a small smile of his own.

"I think I'd like to stay here for now," he decided. "If that's alright."

Plenty of work lay ahead of them, Hank knew. Connor's memory would be top priority for the foreseeable future. There would be times when he would get frustrated. He might even want to quit. But after everything they'd been through-after everything that Connor had _**been**_ and _**done**_ for Hank, it was a challenge he was more than willing to accept. After all, Connor was family.

And Hank loved him.

"You bet."


	20. Epilogue

Epilogue - FEBRUARY 6, 2040 - AM 06:12:26 

Snow crunched softly beneath Connor's feet as he passed through rows and rows of etched stone markers. The cemetery was blanketed in white. Sleet pattered lightly on the memorials, dusting the names of the deceased in fine powder. There were so many of them, Connor noted—silent human generations now forever consigned to the ground. No wonder many of them felt a kind of dysphoria in a place so conscious of time.

The layout of the graves wasn't exact, and it took a bit of maneuvering before a figure and a puff of steam indicated that he was heading in the right direction. There, beyond a small grove of bare trees and clustered behind a row of small stones, Hank stood. He seemed contemplative—and in such an atmosphere of loss and privacy, Connor wasn't surprised. But they had agreed to meet for a reason. A solemn one. And the android had respectfully complied.

It had been an honor.

"Good to see you," Hank greeted with a quiet smile. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Connor replied somberly.

Hank patted Connor's arm, dismissing some of the gravity from the moment.

"Relax, Connor. I just wanted to show you."

Connor glanced at the stone at Hank's feet. Snow had recently been rubbed from the epitaph. The inscription hadn't been chiseled long enough to begin to show signs of wear. Emotion tugged at Connor's steady features.

 **COLE ANDERSON**

 **SEPTEMBER 23, 2029 – OCTOBER 11, 2035**

 **So small, so sweet, so soon.**

"His mother picked that one," Hank explained. "At the time, I couldn't think straight enough for a line on a tombstone. I don't think either of us could. It was all we could do to put one foot in front of the other."

At the foot of the stone, a small toy tiger had been nestled into a colorful, fresh bouquet of flowers. Unlike the rest of the memorial, its paint had long since faded and the sticker eyes had nearly washed away.

"He took that thing everywhere," Hank chuckled softly, his breath turning into a plume of mist in the frosty air. "Couldn't get him to sleep without it. Truth be told, I thought at the time he was starting to outgrow it, but I found it stuffed into his backpack. Guess not."

To be told about a loss, Connor realized, was one thing. But to see the evidence, to see it existed, was another matter entirely. His features softened. Fell.

"Hank, I…" Connor processed. He met the lieutenant's gaze. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."

"You don't have say anything," Hank replied genuinely. "Like I said, I just wanted you to know where it was."

Heavy-hearted, Connor nodded. His attention drifted to the stone once more and he knelt to examine it. Dusted a cluster of snow from the top.

"Tell me about him," he said quietly.

"He was a goofball," Hank began, hands in his jacket pockets. "Always found ways to make me laugh. He liked to make this face when I told him to do something…I couldn't do it for you, you had to be there. But it cracked me up so much I'd forget what I was getting him to do."

Connor smiled kindly at the stone's name.

"He like to talk a lot. Ask questions. I took him to the zoo once and had to stop at every sign and read it until he got bored. He just wanted to know what it said. Inquisitive's probably a better word for it. And he loved animals. Couldn't get enough of Sumo."

"You had him then?" Connor asked over his shoulder.

"He was a puppy, but yeah," Hank answered. Thought to himself. Sighed. "He was a good kid. Smart. Funny. Full of life. Wish you could've met him."

Knowingly, Connor nodded. "So do I."

In a moment of reflection, he realized he hadn't brought anything to pay his respects. He'd seen many of the other graves adorned with mementos, flowers, and other trinkets. It wasn't expected of him, Connor knew. But Hank had seen fit to let him in on an extremely private visit. And Cole deserved to be remembered.

Connor felt the pockets of his coat and stopped. It wasn't much, but it meant something to Connor. It would have to do for now. It was a token of his friendship with Cole's father…the object that he had used on so many occasions to calibrate his cognitive functions. It had given him his life back.

Connor slipped the quarter on the plate beneath the flower's vibrant petals and stood. Hank, idly taking in the sunlight warming the snow-topped stones, hadn't noticed. Smiling to himself, Connor winked warmly down at the name once more.

 _It's our secret_ , he whispered mentally.

"Thank you for sharing this with me," Connor said, bringing Hank out of his thoughts. "It means a lot."

"I'm glad I did," Hank assured him. He took a final look at the grave and, with a bittersweet smile, ran a hand along the top of the tombstone as he passed. "Come on. Work's in two hours and I'm not going in without coffee."

Falling in step beside the lieutenant, Connor followed. The cemetery sprawled in every direction. It would take some time to reach the Oldsmobile outside. Enough time to talk, Connor noted. To catch up.

"Is Fowler still upset with me?" Connor asked, smirking.

"About missing the public announcement? Yeah." Hank grinned.

"To be fair, I didn't realize they had decided to move my trial date up by a week. There was no way I could miss it."

"Sure," Hank agreed. "But announcing the creation of an Android Crimes Unit is a pretty boring stunt if the guy who's heading the thing doesn't show."

"I gave him notice," Connor argued, amused.

"Yup. The day before," Hank smirked.

"I'll have to apologize," Connor decided. "I'm lucky he gave me the job at all."

"You'd better," Hank quipped. "Or he'll make someone else sergeant."

Connor smiled. Hesitated.

"Are you sure you're alright stepping back into homicide?" he asked honestly. "Because if that's not what you want—."

"It is," Hank interrupted. "I thought we'd been over this. I said it up front: I'm the least qualified cop in the country to handle android cases and just because you showed up and forced me to like you doesn't mean that's changed."

"Alright," Connor replied, holding up a hand in surrender. "If you're sure."

"I am," Hank insisted. "Humans killing humans. That's where I do my best work."

The two fell into a comfortable silence.

"Are you holding up alright? After everything?" Hank asked.

Connor took in a slow, steady breath…going over what exactly 'everything' entailed. Deactivation. Memory loss. Memory restoration—after a grueling amount of work and an even greater amount of patient assistance on Hank's part. Clive Tomlin's guilty verdict. Rich Sullivan's guilty verdict. Washington's insistence on a trial regarding the human lives taken at CyberLife Tower.

He'd had a busy six months.

"It took some doing," Connor admitted. "But I am. My memories are where they should be. I'm starting a new job. I have my own apartment. And we'll get to work together daily. It's more than I thought I'd get."

"Good attitude," Hank remarked. "But I'm not talking about that."

Connor fell silent.

"I still get death threats," he explained after a moment. "There are a lot of people who disagreed with the verdict. It's what some of the politicians argued—that just because laws regarding androids didn't exist at the time of the CyberLife infiltration doesn't mean that I can't be held to similar laws regarding human crime. But the judge saw things differently."

"Good on him," Hank nodded. "You were acting in self-defense. They were going to kill you whether you obeyed them or not. Fuck 'um."

"I hate that it happened," Connor explained. "Killing them wasn't part of the plan. And some of these disappointed people are part of the community I'm now sworn to protect and serve."

"It's the same everywhere, Connor," Hank mused. "Police aren't always the good guys, you know? They're people just like everyone else. They can biased. Make mistakes. Hell, they can be out-and-out corrupt. It's understandable."

"I want to be different," Connor replied, determined. "I started off on the wrong foot for that, I'm well aware. But I want to do whatever I can to create a safer Detroit for everyone. –What?"

Hank chuckled to himself.

"You're a good kid, that's all," he smirked.

Connor took the compliment with a private smile of his own.

"You look like yourself now, by the way," Hank said, motioning towards the empty spot where his LED had once cycled. "I'm glad you got rid of it."

"I was holding onto to the past," Connor replied. "I didn't realize it until I didn't have one. It was nice to be someone special. The most advanced. A unique prototype…even though it was a lie. A part of me didn't want to let that go."

"It seems right," Hank insisted. "I think you made a good call."

"Thanks," Connor smiled.

"That guy was a pain in the ass anyway," Hank retorted, back at his old bravado. "Always in my business, taking naps on elevators so he could report to CyberLife…"

"Forcing you to like me, apparently," Connor added, shrugging.

"What?" Hank griped.

"Your words, not mine!" Connor insisted. "You said I showed up and forced you to like me…so, it stands to reason that you weren't as annoyed as you like to let on."

Hank leveled a pointed finger in his friend's direction.

"—Shut it. Fuckin' android."

Connor laughed, clearly the victor.

Through the trees, Connor spotted the entrance gates opened. The Oldsmobile was parked out front. Venturing a sideways glance at his human counterpart, Connor spotted the redness of his windswept nose. Coffee was definitely in order.

"We can stop by the old diner on Montclair Street," Connor suggested. "It's within walking distance of the police department. What do you say? My treat."

Hank smiled, nodded. Rested a warm, familiar hand on Connor's shoulder.

"Sounds like a plan."


End file.
